


Not a Spark, But a Burn

by candyvan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Kate/Derek warning, Magical Tattoos, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This is not a Sterek fic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/pseuds/candyvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was supposed to be exorcising a demon, okay? He does not have time for being pinned to the wall by Laura freaking Hale. </p><p>or that fic where Stiles is sent back in time and decides to be a meddler.</p><p>"So maybe next time we meet, I'll be someone else. I'll be better. I'll be different. Maybe next time, I will be a spark, and I will burn this fucking world to the ground." - R.M. Drake</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Stiles isn't even able to catch his breath before he's being slammed against a locker. He didn't even have time to process why he was in school, during summer, in the middle of the day, before a blurred shape ran down the hall like a banshee and attacked him.

 Stiles instantly recognizes her as Laura Hale, from a picture that he found Derek crying over three months ago, and Stiles rolls with the throw, letting her shove him into the cold metal, too busy wondering how the fuck she's even alive, let alone in a _high school_ , to even consider fighting back.

 Did every Alpha come back to life after they died or is it just a Hale thing?

 She presses him up against the lockers as soon as she reaches him and while it's not nearly as emasculating as when Erica beat him with his starter, it still makes him wave his hands in the space between them and groan obnoxiously. Stiles whines about the feeling of his naked upper torso against the cold lockers, the fresh stinging of his wounds.

 He's reminded so much of Derek when he sees her orange eyes drilling holes into his, and the slight tips of elongated fangs poking out from her lips, that he decides it's better to try to assess the situation instead of begging for his life.

 But, really? Why is Laura Hale so intent on murdering him in a school hallway? He looks down at himself, and wonders if he's not beat up enough for her to consider leaving alone.

 The main difference is that Derek is always just trying to intimidate him, but Laura looks well prepared to actually _rip his throat out._ The thought makes Stiles gulp and go slack in her grip, trying to appear as least threatening as possible.

 Eye contact. He remembers the rule about eye contact well and quickly steels his gaze to the wall behind her, where he gapes at a sign. His gut twist like a washing machine as his eyes roam over it again and again because _no_.

 There is no way that sign is congratulating the class of 2007 on graduating soon.

 No.

 Fucking.

 Way.

 Laura snarls at him, as quiet as she can to still be threatening, and presses him harder into the unforgiving metal. Stiles' shoulder is digging into a locker, and he winces at the thought of another future bruise that is sure to form.

 “Who. Are. You?” She growls at him. He can feel the small pricks of her very werewolfy claws against his neck and he's eerily reminded of the Kanima slicing people into paralysis. He would really love to answer her, but he's a bit busy having an existential crisis over the possibility trying to take home in his head.

 There's no way that demon transported him back in time six years. Stiles' mind wants to deny, deny, deny but the logic is almost too flawless. He has freaking Laura Hale in front of him, pressing him into a locker, for fucks sake. There really isn't any room for denial right now, so he tries to roll with it as best as he can.

 As best as he can apparently isn't good enough for Laura, because she presses a single claw into his exposed shoulder. He manages to flinch away from her and it sends his heart slamming against his rib cage as it makes her dig harder into his muscle. What's one more open wound compared to realizing he's six years in the past though, right? He looks down, letting out a huff of relief when he sees that she didn't scratch at his scars.

 Flinching away exposes his neck more, though, and by her pleased expression he can't tell if it was the right move or not. Isaac would always bare his throat to Derek if he was being reprimanded, but that was towards his Alpha. Stiles internally listed the pro's and con's of submitting to Laura Hale, of all people, and decides that he really isn't in any position to question her dominance over him right now anyway.

 Especially when she tightens her grip on his neck and looks positively delighted as he hisses against the feeling.

 Laura Hale is a girl who enjoys her power trips. Noted.

 Her eyes narrow as more seconds tick by and her features are rapidly shifting into something way less human and Stiles yelps as she crowds closer to him, “Stiles. Ugh, fuck! Please don't kill me, please, I really have no idea what's going on and-” Stiles sputters and flails as she presses her face closer to his throat and her nostrils flair like Derek's anytime Scott came to a pack meeting after being with Allison, “-can you not smell me right now, Jesus! I know you werewolves get off on that kind of thing but seriously?! Show some decorum. We are in a public-”

 Laura relaxes her grip on him but manages to look pissed as opposed to her angry curiosity before. Stiles wonders if it's bad form to pee himself when being interrogated by a scary werewolf.

 “You smell like my brother,” She hisses, and it's almost a snarl by the way she flashes her fangs at him, “Why?”

 Stiles can answer this question, technically, but he would really rather not explain to Laura that he's from six years in the future and he and her brother and kinda sorta friends who work together a lot and spend Sunday mornings eating cereal and discussing new training strategies and save each others lives if it's convenient. Stiles challenges Hallmark to make a card for that awkward situation, but that's an email that'll have to be written later since Laura's, now thankfully human, nails are digging into his neck and dragging him out the front door of the school, one hand typing rapidly on a flip phone.

 He wonders briefly if the man-handling is also werewolf thing or a Hale thing, but doesn't have a lot of time to think about it with Laura forcing him into the front seat of a black Toyota. She manages to do this all one handed while still typing away on her phone; a feat that Stiles is truly impressed by because he remembers 2007 and texting on a Razor sucked ass no matter what freaky werewolf superpowers you had.

 She snaps her phone shut loudly as she settles into the drivers side and doesn't even bother with the seat belt. Stiles does, because he remembers Derek's driving and is still finding little to no differences between the brash Hales.

 She growls lowly at him when he opens his mouth to ask where she's taking him, because it's only common courtesy to warn someone before you drop their mutilated body in a river bank, so he takes the drive to pinch the soft skin of his underarm and hopes to wake up from whatever nightmare he prays he's in, and then, when the skin turns an angry red and it's apparent he won't be waking up any time soon, he picks at the dried blood covering the skin of his torso. He remembers ripping his shirt off of him, remembers pressing it into Scott's side and shouting at Boyd to watch out.

 Stiles can still hear his screams and Allison's gasping breaths as she sobbed over him. Hunters could lace almost anything with wolfs bane, apparently, and the pure silver of the knife had glinted dangerously in the moonlight once the demon stole it off of Chris' body. He shivers uncomfortably as he remembers the black shape, It's mouth just a gaping maw as it taunted and teetered dangerously around his pack.

 Laura smirks as she scents the air, “I'm not going to kill you, if that's what your afraid of.”

 Stiles doesn't correct her, doesn't tell her that his fear is mostly from the nauseousness that swirls in his gut, from still feeling the black abyss press into his back, the thousand knives jamming into his sides, the fire that burned in his very soul as his own spark was used against him. He lets her think she's a big, bad, scary werewolf and doesn't tell her that he can still feel the weight of his vial of mountain ash in his pocket, that he can shield himself from her in a few seconds if he needs to.

 She can go on thinking he's just a suspicious human who smells a bit too much like her brother, five other wolves, and blood. Stiles somehow keeps his mouth snapped shut, too busy recounting the events that had just occurred five minutes ago.

 Fuck, how had it all gone so wrong?

 They had him, _they fucking had him!_ It was trapped in the circle that Stiles meticulously slaved over for two days, It was doused with holy water, and It had sat there and shivered and burned against the words that Stiles and Lydia hurled at him, the words they stayed up night after night practicing over skype.

 But Stiles can still remember Its smirk as they finished, the sharp fangs as It laughed harshly before brutally attacking them all. And when It saw the marks on Stiles; the shapes Deaton had carefully carved into the skin of his shoulders, his rib cage, and his hips? It practically giggled with glee.

 Stiles presses his face into the cool window, letting his breath create puffy clouds on the surface. He can almost hear Derek growling at him to stop, that he could scratch them, but he ignores the voice in his head.

 Laura isn't as protective of her car, or she's just too busy replying the to the flood of text messages she received as soon as they left the parking lot. Her phone is a barge of _ting!_ s and Stiles is two seconds away from grabbing it and throwing it out the window.

 He side eyes her and decides that would just make him an even bigger target of her anger and decides the phone will remain intact for another day.

 It takes him two minutes longer than he would have liked for it to to realize that Laura is taking him back to the Hale house. Stiles isn't comforted by this, not like he would be if he was driving his jeep with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac squished in the back, Erica snarking him every which way about any asinine topic that pops into her head, with Scott to his side, rolling his eyes at their banter.

 He's not being taken to his Alpha, isn't going to be able to pop into the renovated kitchen and mutter about movie options while pulling out supplies for waffles or lasagna or whatever he was making that night, isn't going to laugh while Derek completely dominates the wolves in training matches, isn't going to have the comfort and safety of his pack. He's literally being dragged into a wolf den, reeking of another pack and their son.

 Stiles uses the rest of the drive to reconsider any and all life choices he made that lead him to this point in time. He absently runs his right hand over his left side, using his fingers to trace the swirls and circles and diamonds of the scar, feeling the smooth, fake looking, pink flesh under his palm. It calms him, grounds him to the situation, reminds him that this is real.

 The last thing he remembers is the demon tracing the pattern with Its featherlight touch while it held him in an unbreakable hold. It ran Its hand from his right shoulder, across to his left, and down to where it ended just above his hip. It had said something in Its deep voice, the one that just made him feel queasy and so so so wrong. What had It said though? Stiles was too busy struggling, too busy listening to the cries of Allison and the roar of anger from Erica, too busy trying to remember the last thing he said to his father because if he was dying he wanted to make sure it wasn't something stupid like promising to take the trash out.

 Laura pulls up to the Hale house and Stiles really wonders why Derek didn't correct how many of the details they got wrong in the rebuild. They didn't even paint it the right color. Like, come on. He blinks and there's suddenly four other people on the porch.

 Werewolves, he reminds himself, and these ones will kill him if they think he's a threat to their pack. Stiles remembers Derek's eyes flashing as a feral omega cornered Lydia, remembers his ferocious growl when Danny showed up to the house when Stiles and Allison were locking everyone up for a full moon, remembers the swift and unrelenting tug that called to him anytime someone got too close to them, remembers the need and desire to protect his family and his pack.

 He doesn't have a pack though, not here, not in 2007. His pack is down the street at school, blissfully unaware of werewolves and hunters, or at the police station, pouring themselves too hard into their work, or in San Diego, wishing they could just settle down. He's alone, and it hurts worse than the pain in the deep cut on his thigh.

 Stiles decides he's way too emotionally drained for pack politics and ignores Laura's warning snarl as he gets out of the car.

 “Look,” he starts, eyes sliding over Derek's family and settling directly on the woman he suspects to be his mother. She's tall, and holds herself exactly as Peter did when he was an Alpha, except she doesn't exude an air of murderous psychopath. Her eyes flash red as she scents the air, and Stiles lightly lifts his chin, in submission- not defiance, but keeps his eyes trained on hers. His knees want to buckle under the weight of her gaze, and he's suddenly reminded how many bruises are on his skin and how many open wounds he's currently letting get infected and sighs, “Twenty minutes ago, my best friend was bleeding out on me and I had to watch half of my pack die because _I_ obviously fucked up somehow. If you're going to kill me, can you at least let me sit down on a fucking couch first.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles doesn't get the couch. He doesn't get that comfy looking arm chair, either, or even the option to just fall on that soft plush carpet and sleep for five years. Stiles hates the foreign feeling as he's shuffled through the house, like he's looking at a completely different model of the home he spends more time at than his own. He's herded directly past the living room, the kitchen, and is pulled to a full stop in the dining room.

Which is where he promptly collapses into a pulled out chair and fights every urge in his body screaming to rest his head on the surface of the table and pass out. He has a few seconds to consider making a graph depicting the extreme differences between human healing and werewolf super healing powers, because really, does no one care for the helpless human bleeding all over himself, before a few older Hales are shuffling to sit in the chairs around him.

Laura and a few others decide to hold up the wall, and Stiles wonders if it's a pack hierarchy thing.

“So, you're either a human, or those are from your Alpha.”

Stiles can't even tell which Hale felt like starting the interrogation, and sighs, too tired to even try to put in the effort of a lie or snark, “I'm a human.”

There's a nod from Talia Hale and she points to a boy standing close to Laura, “Call Deaton,” she orders, and the boy nods briskly before disappearing into the kitchen.

Stiles feels like he might throw up, the nauseous feeling that had been swirling in his gut seems to have increased since stepping foot in the house. He doesn't want to be here. Every time he even looks in Laura's direction, his head starts pounding and he can't stop seeing half of her body in a hole. Stiles just wants to lie down, to catalog his injuries and have Lydia or Allison patch him up, to have Isaac and Scott sit beside him and take his pain away, to have Erica bring him snacks and juice and for Boyd to scoff at him for playing up his pain.

What's worse, Stiles decides, is that he even wishes Derek was here to chide him for being so idiotic and getting hurt. He just wants his pack back, he wants his family and his friends to crowd around him and make sure he's safe. He wants the feeling that comes whenever they're in the same room, the protection, the belonging.

He's an outsider here, and it physically hurts.

Of course, the physical pain could be the cuts in his side and his thigh, which seem to have stopped bleeding, and the purple bruise blooming on his right side. He knows he got out of the battle relatively unscathed compared to the others, but the mental anguish of knowing he forcibly abandoned his pack in the midst of battle hurts way too deep.

Stiles groans, resting his head on his forearms and breathing on the surface. A hand drops lightly on his head, rubbing soothingly. Stiles has felt his pain being drawn before. It's not a new thing to him, since when Deaton taught Scott he could do it Stiles spent the next day jabbing himself with thumbtacks and whining at Scott to practice.

Stiles peeks out from his cave and sees Talia with her mouth drawn in a tight line as she stares at him, her eyes flashing red as her nostrils flare. Stiles knows she's smelling him, smelling the blood and sweat and pack that has probably permeated into his very being by now. He's not afraid, though, not really. Stiles has heard far too many stories about Talia from Derek, Deaton, his own dad, and even Christ Argent.

Talia Hale is an amazing Alpha, and an even more amazing person. She wouldn't hurt Stiles, especially not when he's so obviously not prepared to defend himself, especially when he smells like her son.

The rest of the Hales don't seem as forgiving as their Alpha, though, so Stiles tries to keep calm and smell of anything but prey.

“Where's Derek?” Talia asks, finally taking her eyes away from Stiles', and he follows the direction she's staring at in hope of an answer. Her eyes aren't red anymore, but back to that hazel color that Derek has. It's so familiar, the flash of red to hazel, that Stiles feels the ache in his chest grow bigger.

“Swim practice,” A young girl pipes up from where Laura's standing, and adds, “He said they have a meet this weekend and he can't miss it.” Her dark hair is up in curled pig tails and she's missing a front tooth, and Stiles thinks she's probably Cora. He doesn't think Derek has any other sisters, but leaves a margin for error.

Talia nods and Peter, Stiles represses the shudder that zings through him at the sight of the macabre villain, peeks his head out from the line of other adult Hales and stares at Stiles, “Do you think you could, perhaps, manage to tell us exactly why you're shirtless,” not that Peter looks that concerned with Stiles' lack of shirt, the creep, “Covered in blood and practically dying on our dining table?”

“And why you smell like Derek!” Laura adds, eyes flashing at Stiles.

Stiles just rolls his eyes at her, not at all threatened by the display. At least Laura's a born werewolf _and_ fully submitted to an Alpha. Isaac and Erica were way more terrifying before Derek got them under control. Stiles is careful not to blurt out that information, though. Supernatural creatures have fragile egos and he feels like he's already half dead, so. Don't wanna make it an easy kill for her.

Stiles opens his mouth to answer Peter, not that he really knows what would have stumbled out, when the front door opens and he hears the sound of Deaton talking to the boy who left the room earlier. He turns around the corner, not looking any different from when Stiles saw him last week, and pauses as he takes him in.

He's sure he's quite the sight, what with werewolf and human blood over him, the aforementioned bruise and cuts, and his scars that Deaton himself put on him, so he doesn't mind that the vet needs a few seconds to collect himself. Stiles is sure he'd need the same if he was in his predicament.

“'Sup?” Stiles waves with a smack of his lips.

That seems to shock Deaton out of his reverie and he's instantly hustling his way around the werewolves to kneel in front of Stiles. He scoots his chair out to give the good doctor some room to work, because there was no way the family of freakishly healing werewolves were going to know that he needed space to work his doctor magic, and hisses as it pulls at the cut on his side.

Now that he gets a better look at it, though, Stiles is upgrading that particular cut to a gash and that's that.

“That's not going to interfere with my tats, right?” Stiles asks, looking worriedly at the way it slices between the rune, he promises himself later he'll laugh at the fact that it's his only protection ward, on his ribs. If it does, Stiles is going to be pissed because that one hurt like a bitch to get and he manfully cried the entire two hours it took to carve it in.

Deaton looks at him in a cross between awe and worry, his fingers gently poking at the raised skin, “I'm afraid it cut it off completely,” Deaton says, gesturing to the spot where the gash cut into the rune, “It's too precise to be on accident. It's the only weak point in that particular ward and it's almost impossible to hit. Whomever did this definitely knew what they were doing.”

Stiles nods, accepting that easily and is decidedly too tired to make a fuss about it. He knows all about his wards and runes and patterns. He had poured himself over books, ordered from some pretty shady websites, for three months before finally going to Deaton with his designs.

“Which,” Peter catches Stiles' attention again, “Calls the question again: What _were_ you doing?”

Stiles sighs, because honestly? What is he supposed to say? He's in a room full of lie detectors just waiting for a reason to tear him apart and he's in no condition to attempt to talk his way out of this. To be honest, he's still freaking out about the whole _6 years in the past thing_ and is probably just a tad bit woozy from blood loss and, oh yeah, did he mention the time travel?

The time travel thing is pretty important on his list of major concerns, he decides.

A man sitting directly next to Talia, who has Derek's perfect jaw, Stiles notes, recalls, “You mentioned something about “fucking up” and your pack _dying_?”

Stiles chuckles a bit before immediately cutting himself off when, ow, ribs, “Uh, yeah, not really my best opening line?”

Someone snorts. Stiles thinks it's nice that at least someone appreciates him.

He awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, “Look, I'm, um, I'm-”

Stiles sighs. If it sounds stupid to him, when the fucking evidence is right in front of his face, then there's no way anyone is going to believe him. He should just leave. He should just get up and hobble to some ditch and just lay down and die because nothing makes sense anymore.

Of course, that's what Stiles would do if he was smart and not on the verge of keeling over and vomiting over Deaton's nice looking shoes. In reality, or whatever fever dream he's in, Stiles reaches up and grabs the wrist of Talia. There's a snarl somewhere behind him, but Stiles pays it no mind as he promptly brings her hand to his jugular to feel his pulse. She can rip his throat out right now if she really wanted to. Stiles knows this. He looks directly into her eyes, and Stiles knows that Talia knows that he knows this.

He knows what position he's putting himself in right now, willingly, and Talia nods, prepared to accept what he's about to say.

“I'm from the future.”

Silence.

Complete. And total. Silence.

The hand stays firmly on his throat, but there's no sudden claw growth and he's not dead so Stiles thinks this is a good sign. Everyone is frozen and staring at him like he might be the next messiah or something, though, so he's not too sure if his opinion on the matter is valid.

“Well,” Laura pipes up after an entire two minutes passed, “He's not lying.”

Talia keeps her palm on his throat but it's more relaxed, and her veins are still black from stealing his pain and Stiles almost sags in relief. It's like a weight has been lifted off of him because they believe him and he's not going to die yet. She moves her hand in a gesture for Stiles to continue with his story and so he does.

He tells them almost everything while Deaton works on fixing him; the Hale fire, but not how because he's sure that if he rats out Derek's crush Laura will fly at him for besmirching his name, looking for the dead body (he omits that it's Laura's), Scott getting bit, meeting Derek in the woods, looking for the Alpha, finding the Alpha (omitting that it's Peter), Derek becoming the Alpha, Talia's grip tightens at that, but Stiles thinks it's more out of concern than anger so he barrels on, the Kanima, the beta's, Gerard, the alliance with the hunters, the Alpha pack, the rebuild, the Succubus, the elves, the goblins, the giant spiders, the vampires, the omega's, the mountain troll, the magic, and it went on and on until Stiles' throat went dry and Cora brought him a glass of water.

“-and then I yelled at Boyd to watch out and the demon decided I'd be much more fun to toy with and he grabbed me and lifted me away from Scott and touched me here,” he touches his shoulder and drags it over to his hip, “and he said something but there was too much noise going on and I'm not even sure if it was English and then Laura had me against the lockers and now I'm here.”

There's a small murmur throughout the crowd and the older wolves turn to Deaton who finished fixing Stiles up around his Succubus adventures and had backed himself up against a free wall. Deaton clears his throat and places a hand on his chin contemplatively, “Theoretically, it's possible. I've never heard of someone doing it, but you do have an excessive amount of runes on you,” That is definitely a judging look, “I would have to study them further to see if that is what caused you to end up here.”

Stiles simply nods because it's what he would have suggested anyway. When they went about putting the runes on Deaton never mentioned any adverse effects like magical demons deciding to send him six years in the past but he can't really hold the grudge, since his Deaton isn't even here to hold a grudge to and he already knows that the vet liked to stay out of Supernatural stuff as much as he could despite being the go to guy for a pack of werewolves.

Stiles jumps as Deaton rest a hand on his shoulder and traces a spiral and zig zag that runs down his left shoulder and around his bicep, whispering “ _inlusio_ ” with a look. Stiles feels... nothing.

He glares at his arm because that's definitely not what's supposed to happen. His deception rune is supposed to make him slightly blurry, just enough for eyes to pass over him and let him sneak around without being detected. It also makes him feel like he's covered in a layer lukewarm water, which he knows for sure because he just used it the other day to break into his dad's filing cabinet.

Deaton sighs and it sounds far too tired for a goddamn vet to use, “I think this demon used up whatever magic had been stored in the runes to send you back.”

And that's definitely enough to piss him off because Stiles spent a year getting these done. He quit lacrosse so people wouldn't see the scarification process and think he was mutilating himself. He spent countless of dollars that could have been used to fix up his piece of crap Jeep on buying those moldy old books and paying Deaton. He even had to change his entire sleeping position because sleeping on his back was not good for the healing process.

Stiles can feel it coming on and he quickly pushes it down. No. He is not having a panic attack in a house full of werewolves. He refuses to, but his throat is already tightening and his breathes are shuttering and he thinks his hands are shaking.

“But, if using the runes got me here, then does that mean...” Stiles trails off, too afraid to consider the possibility.

Because if the demon sapped all of the magic using the runes to send him here, then that meant there wasn't any left to go back.

And Stiles needs to believe he can go back.

Deaton nods though, and that's all Stiles needs to know before his chest tights and and his eyes sting and his throat closes up and fuck fuck fuck he can't breathe and his eyes clench tight and his hands are balled into fist and someone's forcing his head down and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-

Deaton's in front of him, hands on his shoulders and he's holding Stiles, “We'll figure this out, Stiles. I promise you, we'll get to the bottom of this.”

Stiles doesn't believe him in the slightest, because he's Deaton and after a few years it's really hard to trust Deaton without a grain of salt, but it calms him down for the most part. His hands are still shaking but he can breathe again and that's always a step in the right direction.

“Stiles is going to stay with me until we figure a few things out,” Deaton says, not taking his eyes off of Stiles

Talia nods, eying Stiles like he might keel over and die at any second, which is a real possibility right now, “Yes, I think that would be best.”

“And your pack isn't going to harass him about what happened here tonight.” Deaton orders.

Laura bristles out of the corner of Stiles' eye but she really isn't his highest concern right now. He's too busy watching Deaton, who has a hand wrapped protectively around Stiles' wrist, stare at Talia like a cobra waiting to strike until she gives in and relents, “Just until he's healthy again. The things he told us were... troubling, you have to admit, Deaton.”

Stiles really doesn't like the sound of being bombarded by Hales, healthy or not, but he'll take whatever reprieve he can get and Deaton seems to feel the same way. He pulls Stiles up and guides him past the werewolves who look... nervous? Stiles can't name the expression on their face, but doesn’t concern himself with it. Talia is right, Stiles did drop quite a few knowledge bombs on them in the span of two hours. If someone randomly appeared from the future and told him he was going to die in a blaze of notglory he'd probably be biting his nails off and torturing them for information.

 Okay, not torture, but he has a special brand of annoyance if his dad is any source to go by.

 Deaton helps Stiles into his car, where he promptly rest his head against the window and closes his eyes feeling way too emotionally and physically exhausted to even consider being alive.  


	3. Chapter 3

Deaton surprisingly doesn't live in the vet clinic.

Stiles makes a noise of surprise when Deaton parks his car along the curb outside of the apartment building, and Deaton just rolls his eyes when Stiles sputters out something about Scott saying that Deaton slept in a supply closet with a blanket of cats. Stiles thought it was a lie when Scott told him it years ago, but after Deaton was just always at the clinic whenever the pack needed him it was hard to believe he ever actually went home.

It's not even a small apartment. It's pretty big, with an open floor plan, and there's not even any voo doo magic stuff lying around. There's pictures on the walls of puppies for crying out loud. There's an open laptop with a desktop picture of Deaton a few other people, a newspaper left open on the counter with an empty bowl next to it, looking sad and neglected after someone rushed out of the house to patch up some kid who fell out of the sky, and a movie playing on the TV with the volume muted. It's bright too, with colorful walls, which is more surprising, as Stiles thought that a whole bunch of Gothic style furniture would be more up the good doctors street.

Whatever.

He toes off his mud slick shoes and leaves them by the door, not wanting to ruin Deaton's nice floors.

“I'm afraid I don't normally have guest,” Deaton says, dropping his keys in a purple bowl near the door before sliding the dead bolt into place. “So you'll have to sleep on the pull out couch.”

Stiles eyes him judgmentally and gestures to his everything. “You realize I'm on the brink of death, right?” He whines pathetically, clutching at his bruised side.

Deaton doesn't appreciate his whining like Erica would have, and just walks into the kitchen. Stiles follows and leans against the island, almost wanting to moan wantonly at how the cold marble feels against his bruised side. He keeps his mouth shut, though, sure that Deaton will toss him out on the street.

Stiles is pretty sure there's werewolves on the street, werewolves who want to ask him questions about their imminent demise, so, no thank you.

Deaton roams around in the cupboards for a few seconds before coming back with a rather large white pill. Stiles eyes it skeptically and Deaton just places it into his palm and gets him a glass of water, “It's an Ibuprofen. Relax.”

“No freaky magics are at play here, right?” Stiles ask, just for lack of anything to say. He swallows the pill before Deaton can even answer.

“Oh no, there's plenty of 'freaky magics' at play here, Stiles,” Deaton walks over to the fridge and opens the freezer, shifting around for a few seconds before reappearing with a bag of peas. Stiles doesn’t appreciate how cold they look. “Not all of them are from me, though.”

“Right.”

 Deaton wraps the peas in a paper towel and presses it to Stiles' side. Stiles yelps, “Jesus! Warn a guy!”

Deaton just raises his eyebrow mockingly and waits patiently for Stiles to take over the pea situation. Stiles does so and presses it tenderly to his side, wincing slightly. He doesn't even really remember how he got the bruise, to be honest. He thinks it might have been when he was thrown back when the demon broke the circle, still no actual clue how the hell that happened, but Stiles isn't exactly the king of knowing things right now so he mentally adds it to his list.

Stiles eyes Deaton suspiciously as he's bustling around, opening drawers and closets. He places two pillows and an afghan blanket on the couch. It looks scratchy and Stiles eyes it with distaste. Deaton gets to work and pulls out the couch, revealing a bed that looks barely big enough to hold two people that probably isn't comfortable at all.

Deaton comes back and guides Stiles by the elbow to the bed. Stiles lets him because either that Ibuprofen kicked in fast or his nap in the car didn't do anything to make him feel less like dead weight. He thinks it's a combination of both.

As he settles against the springy mattress, he was right, it's horrible, Deaton carefully pulls back the bandage covering his now useless protection ward. Stiles glares at it, like all of this mess is its fault. It probably is, knowing Stiles' luck.

“So,” Deaton starts as he clicks open a small case and applies some disinfectant to a cotton swab, “Tell me exactly why I can only see one of these,” he gestures to the ward, “Here?”

Stiles sighs, having heard the exact same question from both Deaton and Lydia. “I just didn't see the point,” he mumbles, fidgeting as Deaton presses the cold swab to his side and drags it along his cut. He hisses a bit as it tugs the edges, “I mean, I was surrounded by werewolves for almost three years and I've only came close to dying like, twice? I figured getting more than one would, like, be a dare or something to the forces that be.”

Deaton gives him a look and Stiles rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I know, blah blah blah. It's stupid. We've already had this discussion.” Deaton quirks the corners of his lips up in what could be considered amusement and then sets to eying the cut with more skepticism.

“You hand picked this one, you know?” Stiles says, because the silence is unnerving and he can see Deaton looking at the needle and thread and he does not want to think about needing stitches, “I was going to go with a smaller one, and it totally worked in with this one,” Stiles points to his Locks and Bindings rune, a neat trick that gets him out of handcuffs and ropes, that he moved to the inside of his left wrist because Deaton is a life ruiner and it was easier to touch when his hands where immobile, “But you promised this one was practically perfect.”

The _you're a jerk it's all your fault I'm here I kinda hate you_ goes unsaid.

Deaton smiles, “I did say 'practically', didn't I? Now hold still, You need stitches.”

Stiles brings his hand up and catches himself right before he touches the rune on the back of his neck, the one that acts more like morphine than anything, “ _Adflicto_ ” already on his tongue.

Deaton looks into his eyes, warm in their apology, and he smiles softly until Stiles is forced to look away, once again over come with the sudden feeling of loss that hits his body like ton of bricks. His eyes itch and he fights against the tears because he'll be damned if he starts crying over this.

He barks out a laugh, and it's a hollow sound that makes Deaton look away.

Stiles can't tell if he passes out from exhaustion or just falls asleep while Deaton's steady hands work over him, lost to the world as he counts each time the needle bites into his skin.

When Stiles wakes, he's in a bed he doesn't recognize, sweating under the weight of a thick blanket. He goes to stretch and a sharp pain cuts through his side that makes him wince, curling into a ball and pressing a hand against the stiff thread holding him together. _Oh_ , he thinks, and then everything that happened yesterday seeps slowly through the cloud in his mind, _Right_.

His other side feels damp and cool, and when Stiles lifts the blanket he can see a melted bag sagging against a dark bruise. Stiles pokes at the bruise lightly, hissing at the rush of pain that strikes through his body.

Every muscle hurts like he's been working out nonstop for a week. His joints scream in pain when he finally pulls himself up and he stretches as much as he can without pulling at his stitches. His jeans slide uncomfortably against his legs and he feels itchy in his skin. Stiles makes a face at the bag of peas and hobbles over to the kitchen, leaving his sham of a bed unmade, to deposit them in the sink.

He really doesn't think they're salvageable at this point.

There's a note from Deaton on the counter saying that he had to run into work for a few hours and he'd be home at six or seven. There's instructions to take a shower, Stiles absently picks at the dried blood _still_ on his abdomen as he reads and questions Deaton's morals for sending a severely traumatized eighteen year old to bed like this. Stiles considers if his mission back in time is to prevent Deaton from ever wanting to become a father, because obviously he'd be horrible at it and then his kids would trigger the apocalypse or something. It's likely. Stiles adds it to his list. The note says there's also some clothes on the coffee table, a look up confirms that, and a pass code to unlock a closet door.

Stiles decides that that's where all of the voo doo magic is kept. The urge to go through it without Deaton looking over his shoulder is almost too tempting, but, really, that blood is just getting distracting and Stiles is sure he's starting to smell so he sighs and hops in the shower.

And then promptly groans because wow, hot water is great for stress and whoever invented indoor plumbing is amazing and deserves every nice thing the universe has to offer. Stiles is almost certain the inventor probably died from poor hygiene before their plans were finalized, but alas, he hopes they have a nice party in heaven.

Deaton only has Old Spice and Stiles may or may not waste two minutes reenacting commercials where he's on a figurative horse, but he's been through a lot emotionally and totally deserves to make a fool of himself.

It hits Stiles then that he's in 2007 _and no one would get that joke if he made it_ and that thought just sends him on a downward spiral where he ends up clutching his knees in the shower and having a bit of an existential crisis.

After he pulls himself together, which takes half an hour, and finishes washing off, Stiles drops his bloody, torn jeans in the trash and puts on the red button down and cream cargo pants Deaton left out for him.

It's not a perfect fit but Stiles decides it's better than nothing.

His stomach growls obscenely and he remembers that he hasn't eaten in six years, no he doesn't laugh at himself, that would be childish and this is a very adult situation that needs to be handled maturely. Stiles does chuckle a bit, because he's a funny guy, and rifles through Deaton's pantry and fridge.

He finds some frozen waffles and heats them up in a toaster. While he's waiting for it to pop he roots in cupboards and drawers for a bowl and spoon and pours a bowl of cereal, a boring adult brand, because _six years_ , he reminds himself, and eats it without feeling a smidgen of guilt. He also drinks some milk straight out of the carton as a fuck you to Deaton for leaving him unsupervised and possibly traumatized.

The possible trauma is a big thing here. Weren't magical past guides supposed to be _helpful_? Stiles considers that while he tries to salvage his burnt waffle and bathes in it butter and syrup.

He's in the middle of his third waffle when there's a knock on the door. Stiles freezes, dropping his fork to the counter with a clatter that is sure to alert whoever is outside that there's someone in here. Do Deaton's neighbors know he's here? What's he supposed to do if someone ask why he's here? What if they think he's a burglar? What if they think Deaton is propositioning young men for sex?

Stiles is wearing the guys clothes, after all, and Deaton is pretty shifty. It's not that big of a stretch.

There's another knock, this one harder than the last, and a sigh, “I know you're in there, Stiles!” a familiar voice coons, and then, in a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, “I can smell you.”

“Laura Hale for creeper of the year award.” Stiles mumbles to himself as he puts his dishes in the sink and abandons what's left of his waffle.

Laura's pouting when he opens the door, “I'm not that creepy, honest.”

Stiles just raises an eyebrow at her, “Yesterday you _kidnapped me_ and brought me to your little werewolf den to sacrifice me to the moon, or something.”

Laura waves a hand in a graceful motion that would look like a flail if Stiles attempted it, “Details,” she says with a smile, and tries to step forward only to meet a barrier.

Stiles grins and breathes, “Deaton, you beautiful bastard.” He places his hand on the wooden frame of the door, smile widening as he feels the steady pulse of a mountain ash barrier.

“Bastard is one word for him,” Laura mumbles and glares at the door like it personally offended her.

“Yep,” he pops the 'p', then leans against the doorjamb with a smirk, “So, what are you doing here creepwolf? Deaton explicitly said no harassing the time traveling human. I heard him.”

Laura gives him a blank look, “There's no _harassment_ going on here, Stiles.”

Stiles guffaws, “Really?” he gestures to her standing as close to the door as the the barrier will let her, “What do you call this then?”

“It _was_ called me trying to apologize for yesterday.” Laura growls, eyes flashing orange.

And Stiles just... He gapes, because what? Werewolves don't apologize. Stiles has extensive records and knowledge on the subject. Stiles has three years of personal experience on the matter. Werewolves are too stubborn, their supernatural egos are too big to ever admit they're wrong.

But then Stiles remembers Derek bringing him curly fries after Stiles was right and he hadn't listened, remembers Erica giving him a gift card for gas and a hug, remembers Jackson not pushing him against walls or calling him names and defending him against some assholes on the team, and he amends.

Werewolves never apologize with words.

“You- what?”

Laura growls again, but it's a completely normal human sound of frustration and her eyes are green, “I'm not saying it again,” and Stiles gulps, because Laura must follow the werewolf apology protocol, and her coming here is probably a huge thing that Stiles can't even come to terms with since Laura's talking again, “Now, go get your shoes on. You're coming with me to pick up Derek from school.”

“Um, no I'm not,” Stiles says hastily, stepping backwards unconsciously into the safety of Deaton's apartment. The blood rushes in his ears and his heart speeds up and he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively.

No, he's not ready to see Derek. _Sixteen year old Derek_ who probably isn't broody and grouchy and damaged. Derek who hasn't had to grieve over the loss of his entire family, who hasn't become the Alpha for a pack of misfit toys, who doesn't have to feel guilt every day like his Derek does.

Laura rolls her eyes, “Yes, you are. Come on, he's excited to meet you and mom says that seeing a familiar face will be good for you.”

Stiles just stares at her suspiciously, “Right. I'm sure this isn't part of some long term plan to get me to tell you exactly _why_ your every family member died?”

Her eyes flash for a second at the mention of her family dying, and Stiles wonders just how much control Laura has. Derek definitely never flashed his wolf side around this much, neither did Scott. Stiles feels the urge to just prod her with a stick and see how long it takes her to shift and try to eat him.

“Don't be ridiculous,” She says, waving her hand flippantly, like she hadn't almost wolfed out and attacked him, “It's just that Derek wasn't there yesterday for story time and sacrificing you to the moon gods and all,” Laura gives him a look, “And he thinks we're all messing with his head. I just want him to get a whiff of you and then you can go back to avoiding us and letting us die, or whatever it is you plan on doing.”

Stiles recoils like she hit him and shifts uneasily at the guilt that wraps around his throat, “It's not like I want you to die,” he seethes, because honestly? He doesn't. Despite the kidnapping yesterday, the Hales all seem really nice, and it's not like he wants to cause Derek unnecessary pain, but, “It just happens that way, okay?”

Laura doesn't even act like she heard him, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, now go get your shoes on and get in my car or I _will_ start harassing you.”

She sounds like she's teasing, but Stiles can swear her fangs just got a bit sharper, so he glowers at her, puts on his shoes and follows her out to the parking lot.

“You didn't put up much of a fight,” Laura notes on the elevator. Stiles is having a staring contest with the door. Laura continues on, higher pitched to convey a pleased tone, “You _want_ to see him, don't you?”

Stiles snorts, “Yeah, I really want to go see a guy who doesn't even know who I am. You caught me, Hale, darn your detective prowess.”

The elevator dings and Stiles gets off without even looking back at Laura. She catches up to him quickly and shoulders her way through the front door that Stiles doesn't hold open for her.

As she unlocks the car and slides in, she states, “You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

“You know you're technically kidnapping me again, right?” Stiles shoots back.

Laura shuts up after that. 


	4. Dear you,

 

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys.  
> I don't even know what to do with you all, honestly.  
> A lot of you guys just made me want to cry and ask my mom for a hug or something. You're all ridiculously awesome, honestly.  
> You all gave me so much encouragement and support and you were all so great and understanding and lovely and I just love you all so much.  
> You guys are amazing and awesome and beautiful people. I wasn't expecting that much love and support from you guys, honestly, I'm still crying over some of those awesome messages. You all somehow got me to rewrite (for the eleventh time now!!!) this chapter and I seriously would never have been able to finish this without any of you. You guys are fucking amazing holy shit. Thank you so much for getting me back up there so I could write more for this fic. I love you all so much. You're incredible.

The car is filled with an almost claustrophobic quiet on the ride to pick up Derek. Laura makes a few aborted attempts at conversation but always seems to cut herself off before she can get the first syllable out. Stiles wants to leap in, to fill the void with nonsensical words, but the air in the car makes him stay quiet, feeling like Laura needs the time to think and process. He really doesn't think she deserves the time, since she is basically dragging him way from much needed research for a social call, but something in her tense expression allows it.

“I don't mean to be so intense sometimes,” Laura finally sighs, her grip relaxing from her frigid hold around the steering wheel. “I just- a few weeks ago my mom told me that I'll inherit the Alpha title if something happens to her,” Stiles grips his pants tight between his fingers but Laura doesn't seem to notice, “and she says it'll take a while for me to calm down. It's like, my wolf wanting to make a pack? But right now I just want to... I don't know, it's hard to explain.”

“Control everything?” Stiles hedges.

Laura laughs. “Yeah. Something like that,” she agrees and smiles at him.

Stiles feels like it should be his turn to apologize, but he really doesn't know what for. A coil of guilt is still firmly imbedded into his bones at Laura's offhanded comment earlier and it's almost choking him. It's all stupid, because it's not his fault the Hale's die, right? It's Kate. Kate Argent and her insane father and their quest to kill every werewolf and go against the code.

It's all her fault. Stiles didn't seduce a sixteen year old. Stiles didn't trap a family downstairs. Stiles didn't light the entire place on fire and watch them burn.

So why does he feel so disgusted with himself?

“It actually makes me feel more rebellious, too,” Laura confides with a mischievous smirk as she turns into the parking lot.

Stiles just glares at her, “Rebellious. Is that what you'd call going against your alpha's orders and sneaking me out?”

“She didn't specifically say we couldn't talk to you, just not to ask you questions about the future and I haven't even brought it up once, Stiles. Honestly, it's like you want me to get in trouble.”

Which... is true. Laura actually changed the subject pretty quickly when Stiles brought it up at Deaton's place. And it's not that Stiles wants her to get in trouble, it would just be easier if he didn't hang out with her. It was all fine and dandy knowing that Laura died, and while digging up her dead body gave him a few nightmares, it was still hard to connect that it was Derek's sister. But she's in his face now, she's brash and loud and bold and she likes to needle at him until he feels like slapping her. He's afraid he'll start to like her, and he can admit it to himself.

She tosses her phone in Stiles' direction and it lands in his lap. “Can you text Derek and tell him to get his butt out here? I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Can't you just tell him while you're in there?” Stiles asks, but she's already walking away from the car and toward the school.

Stiles grumbles to himself as he fiddles with her phone, and then feels like he's been punched in the gut as he looks at the time. He got to Deaton's at four the other day. Had he really been sleeping for twelve hours? Stiles hadn't slept in like that since before his mom died. When his parents got him on his medication, he would always wake up at seven or eight and take his pill with his breakfast.

And Stiles promptly slaps his hand to his forehead with a groan. His medication. For his ADHD. That thing he has that makes it hard to focus? Stiles is going to find that demon and rip it in half, he swears to god. Of course he would get stranded back in time without his phone or wallet or even his fucking pills.

It explains why he ate so much earlier, too. Now that he's aware of it, Stiles can see that his leg hasn't stopped moving since he got in the car and the skin of his arms feels slightly itchy. Fuck. He's supposed to be researching, too. Even on his regular dosage it's hard to sit down and focus for long periods of time, and he usually skips taking a pill just to take two on the chosen day to sit down long enough.

How is he supposed to find out what happened to him now? He doesn't even know how long he's supposed to be back in time for, let alone what'll happen to him off his pills for more than a day. He's never been without them for too long ever since his mom had carefully implemented a system in him.

He'll just have to treat it like he normally would without his pills, Stiles guesses, and tries not to worry about it as he scrolls through Laura's contact list. He hasn't texted on a flip phone in forever, and he can't even find Derek in her contacts. There are weird names like 'Momma T' and 'PB&J', and Stiles wonders if it's some weird paranoid werwolf thing.

Stiles thinks it's just a Laura thing.

He continues tweaking around with her phone and there's not even a single 'D' name contact in the thing. Does Derek even have a phone? Is Laura just being a bitch and toying with him? Stiles tries to guess at Derek's nickname, and he has it narrowed down to “Big Bear”, “Growly”, and “The One With The Face” when two doors open.

“Names are important, Laura,” Stiles says automatically as he snaps the phone closed.

“Oh, that's why!” Laura turns in her seat to say to Derek, and Stiles fights against the urge to do so. He's actually terrified of seeing Derek, and a bundle of nerves that he had been trying to ignore decides to spasm and he feels like he's going to throw up. It's still hard to accept that he's in the past, okay? Deaton looks pretty much normal, and yes, the Hale's are a new touch but he never really knew the Hales when they were alive and it's easy to pretend that they're just new people.

Seeing Derek, and a young Derek at that, would just cement it in to how truly fucked this situation is.

“I just assumed they didn't have phones in the future, or something. Do they have phones?” Laura turns back to him, “Or are you all just conversing telepathically.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Yes, we still have phones. They all have touch screens though and full keyboards, and people usually, you know, make sure to use actual names before asking a stranger to use them.”

Laura's nose twitches, “Sorry. You smell so much like pack that I just forgot, I guess?”

Stiles startles, “I smell like pack?”

In another part of his brain, Stiles wonders if Derek also had his phone full of ridiculous nicknames. What was Stiles'? Probably something mean like “Squirrel Kid” or “Annoying Human”.

Laura gives him a look, the one that Cora would give him before saying she wanted to punch him in the face, “Of course you do. You smell like-”

A hand reaches out over the middle console and jars her shoulder, sending her forward into the steering wheel. There's a thick growl, one Stiles has heard so many times that he's not even scared of it at this point, and Laura snarls back quickly. Her eyes flash, and Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Derek's were out too.

He wonders if Derek's are blue or orange. Would it be rude to ask if he killed Paige already? It feels like it would be rude. He tries to remind himself that it would be a new wound, fresh and open, and not just a story told by Peter years later.

Derek was pretty good at handling Stiles being insensitive, though. He did forgive him for digging up Laura's body and getting him arrested for murdering her so maybe his younger self wouldn't rip his throat out over a simple question.

It seems like a bad foot to get started off on, though, so he decides to ask Laura or Deaton later.

After they're done with whatever weird, wolfy power play they were doing and Laura's back to putting her key in the ignition, Stiles asks, “Did you prove whatever point you wanted to? Can you take me back to Deaton's, now?”

Laura pouts, “You haven't even said anything to him! Come on, we're taking you out to lunch.”

“Laura,” A voice hisses from the back, and Stiles is shocked that it's- well, it's not completely different. It's familiar, in a way that feels off somehow. Derek never had a very deep voice, anyway, but this one is almost soft. It's not all growly and macho or anything, it's almost like he's- Stiles quickly turns in his seat, struck by a sudden desire to see him and know for sure.

God, he's hardly even sixteen. His face is soft and curved and he doesn't even have any peach fuzz, for fucks sake. There's absolutely no tension in his face, which is going to take a lot to get used to. He's never seen Derek so relaxed, and he supposes it's since the guy's family isn't dead or anything. His hair is wet, dripping water down the side of his face and he looks like a, well, a puppy.

He still looks like Derek, just not at all. All the pieces are there, and Stiles can easily see how he could be Derek or mistake for Derek, but it's just not him.

And Stiles feels even more lost than he did this morning.

He turns around in his seat quietly and puts his seat belt back on.

“Take me back to Deaton's.” He orders, but his voice sounds weak and empty.

“Stiles-” Derek starts, and god, even his voice makes something in Stiles hurt. Stiles didn't realize how used he was to Derek saying his name. He never thought that it would ever sound foreign coming from him, like he's not even sure he's pronouncing it right.

Which.

Fuck.

Stiles doesn't want to think about this. He doesn't want to be here or around Derek or Laura or anyone. He wants to be home, fuck, how he desperately wants to be home. He misses his dad, and god he misses Derek and his pack.

“I can't do this, okay?” Stiles says, quickly, surprising both him and the Hales, “I can't sit here and pretend this is okay, alright? I don't belong here. I know I'm not supposed to be here because if I was then you would have said something to me. You wouldn't have kept me in the dark about this, and I'm fucking up the time line by even talking to you so please, Laura, just take me back to Deaton's so I can get home.”

It's a weak excuse and he knows it, but he knows he has to be right. Derek would have hated him for not saving his family if he could. Derek would have resented him and he would never have trusted him again, not like he did. And Stiles is terrified of changing anything. He's almost shaking with how nauseated he is.

“Look, maybe you aren't supposed to be here, but you're here now and it's probably for a reason,” Laura says easily, like it's just a fact of life that this is all going to be okay, “Staying in Alan's house isn't going to change anything, it's just going to be hiding from the problem-”

“I really don't think you understand just how okay I am with that.”

Derek snorts form the backseat, as if to firmly cement in Stiles just how weird this situation is. Derek doesn't find him funny. It's a well known truth. Derek does not get amused by Stiles.

“This is so weird,” Stiles says out loud, awed, and then he starts to laugh.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, which really just makes the laughing worse.

Laura puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking lot, her head angled at Stiles, “So, lunch? Or are you going to have another mental breakdown?”

The question sobers him up and he sighs, resigned, “I'm probably going to have a few more before the day's over, but why the fuck not.”

It's not like he can make it any worse, right? Then he'll go back to Deaton's and he won't let Laura drag him outside anymore. He won't be this risky again. It was a stupid mistake to come out today, and he's not going to do it again. He'll buckle down and research and then go home and everything will be fine.

Laura drives them to a diner that went out of business two years ago in Stiles' time. Something about finding rats in the kitchen, but Stiles is with werewolves so he totally trust in their sense of good food. Maybe he can go visit that coffee shop by the station that went out of business. He'd have to be careful and time it so he doesn't run into this dad, because if seeing Derek hurt this much then how much worse would it be to see his dad?

Or worse, himself?

Stiles doesn't even want to imagine meeting himself. He'd probably tell him something stupid like “invest in the iPod” or “don't go out looking for dead bodies, no, seriously, don't do it kid”. Some weird, insignificant tips like that.

It's even worse seeing Derek outside of the car, because his shoulders are so... tiny. He's almost adorable, and even thinking that makes Stiles feel all weird and wrong. Derek's shoulders are supposed to be as wide as a mountain range, okay? He's supposed to look like he takes up an entire room just by standing in it. He's supposed to be able to fit the human on them in a fireman’s carry in case of emergencies where they have to run away and the human gets hurt and maybe even sprains an ankle or something- the human really doesn't like to talk about it.

This Derek is lanky and tall, and he has muscles from swimming and basketball, but he obviously doesn't devote himself to a fitness regiment like he does in the future. Stiles kind of wonders if his Derek pushed himself to such punishing limits because that was what it was meant to be- a punishment.

Stiles carefully averts his eyes and lets Laura shuffle him into the diner and shove him in a booth.

“You have to have one of their milkshakes,” Laura orders as she flips open a menu.

“Not all of us have werewolf metabolisms,” Stiles mutters.

He never really ate here, since it was so far away from his house, and he and Scott would usually bike it over to the pizza place by his house instead, but his dad brought him here once or twice before Stiles got on his health kick. He can't really remember the taste, but he orders a root beer float with a side coke, fuck he needs the caffeine if he hopes to make it through the night, and a burger and fries. It's a safe bet.

After a waitress takes their order, Laura gets a milkshake and ribs and Derek gets a milkshake and the same burger Stiles gets, Laura raises her eyebrow, “Why'd you order two drinks?”

“I left my pills back in 2013, since this really wasn't a planned visit,” Stiles frowns, “I have ADHD. It makes my brain react different to caffeine so instead of acting as an upper it brings me down,” Stiles shrugs, “It's usually pretty manageable but it really sucks that I can't drink coffee without wanting to crash.”

Derek makes a face, “One of my friends has that. Sorry, man.”

Stiles snorts at the sheer weirdness of Derek Hale apologizing- and for something that's not even his fault, “It's not anything to be sorry about. I was born with it. It's not like I'm apologizing for you sprouting claws once a month.”

Laura grins widely at Derek, who glares at her. She turns to Stiles and fixes him with a careful stare, and something about it is almost predatory, “So, Stiles, tell us more about yourself.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, “This is encroaching pretty close to that future topic you aren't allowed to touch, don't you think?”

Laura pouts and Derek nudges her with elbow. Derek doesn't look very comfortable in his seat at all, almost squirming, but Laura ignores him. “I just want to know more about my little bro's pack mate. Gotta give you the gold star approval before you get back home, right?”

From the look Derek's shooting her, Stiles really doesn't believe her for a second, but he can't find out what angle she's trying to work.

So, he shrugs instead of fighting it and says, “There's really not much to tell. Without all that supernatural crap, I'm pretty boring. I play lacrosse, play in a few online gaming communities, work on my magic. Wait, does the magic count as supernatural crap if it's my supernatural crap?”

Stiles makes a face as he considers this, and then the waitress is back with their food. Stiles readily digs into his burger and takes a long chug of his coke. He wishes he had an energy drink or something because that would work twelve times better. Maybe he can talk Deaton into picking some up? Fuck, why does this have to be so hard?

“You're magic?” Derek asks, incredulous.

Stiles makes a noise of hurt low in his throat, “What's that supposed to mean? 'You're magic'. Of course I'm magic. How the hell else do you think I would be able to travel through time?” Stiles turns to Laura, “Did you tell him anything about what I said?”

“The story was pretty long, in our defense.” Laura defends with a sniff. The barbeque sauce from her ribs looks like blood if Stiles squints enough, and it does nothing to make her look as innocent as she's trying to be.

Stiles huffs out a whatever and carefully undoes the top buttons of the shirt Deaton left him. Derek's eyes widen at the exposed skin and looks ready to fling a menu on his chest to defend his honor or something, which is, again, laughable considering that Stiles has seen Derek without a shirt on a hundred times in his life.

“Relax,” Stiles rolls his eyes and shrugs a shoulder out. Derek's eyes instantly lock on the tattoos that curve around his shoulder muscle and behind his neck. He also rolls up his right sleeve to show his locks and bindings rune, simply because it's one of his favorites and since it's separate it's easier to recognize for what it is.

Laura whistles low, “Those look a lot cooler when you aren't half dead.”

Stiles smiles, proud, and says, “Thanks.”

Derek's taken to playing with his fries, “I still don't think you're magic.”

“Oh, so you can accept that I'm from six years in the future and you're my alpha and a bunch of horrible shit happens to you and your family but magic is just too much for you to process?”

“Yep.”

“Future you is much more trusting in me and my awesome magic,” Stiles sniffs.

Laura cackles, “Oh, I'm sure he is.”

Derek looks uncomfortable, and glares at Laura, “There hasn't been a magic user around Beacon Hills in years and you know that, Laura.”

Stiles mindlessly traces a pattern on his plate in the ketchup, with squiggles and diagonals that intertwine in a complicated pattern. It's a simple ward, one he's drawn over a hundred times. He could do it blindfolded if he really needed to.

He licks the ketchup off of his fingertips, still looking down at the plate, and lets off the tight clench he feels deep in his chest. It unravels, only slightly, nothing compared to the time his magic settled, and then looks up with a grin. Laura and Derek seem to have continued into a heated conversation with their eyebrows without him, but Stiles doesn't mind. He's used to werewolves being on different wave lengths sometimes.

He picks up the salt and pepper and starts dumping it over his plate, smiling wider at the Hales' expressions when it bunches at the top and slides down the sides of his barrier, almost like a snow globe.

“Protection ward. Keeps things out.” Stiles clarifies, and puts the shakes back down. He sweeps at the speckles of salt then fell on his clothes and dump them on the floor.

Derek's face is twisted into a familiar scowl, and Stiles tries to ignore how much it hurts to see it, “That's pretty weak, man.”

“Yeah, like I'm going to break out all my top tricks in the middle of a dinner. God, you don't change at all,” Stiles mutters the last part to himself as he breaks the barrier and scoops up some ketchup on a fry.

Laura's grin is almost shark like, “'Rek here takes you to many diners, then?”

Stiles makes a face at Derek, “'Rek?”

“Like wreck?” Laura clarifies, and Stiles almost slaps himself as he remembers seeing it in her phone book, “You should have seen him his first full moon. He took down three entire trees before mom was able to get him under control.”

“Oh, like you're any better. You were practically humping your boyfriends house trying to get at him last year.”

Laura blushes a furious, bright red and promptly reaches out and snaps Derek's head onto the table.

Stiles laughs along with them, but he can't help but feel the scrape against his chest. Seeing Derek, laughing with his sister? Making fun of each other and imparting physical violence? It hurts. It's so hard to compare him to his own Derek, because he can actually see them. In their jaw, in their eyes, in their fucking hair. His Derek could laugh like this, if he let himself. If Kate hadn't burned his entire family, his Derek could be this happy and safe and carefree.

And he wants that. He wants his Derek to be this happy. Sure, there's a few begrudging smiles here and there, and Stiles can venture to say that Derek has grown at most content with his pack, but he's never smiled as brightly as this Derek.

Stiles tries to not think about how easily he could make that happen. He attacks his burger with a vengeance, trying to ignore the ache in his chest as Derek steals a rib from Laura.

Fuck, he is so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so during that two months where I sat around and cursed the writing gods and cried I finally settled on my plot and then Teen Wolf decided to be a jerk and release some more tragic back story for our baby Derek so I adjusted some things and I think I did well enough? I went back to chapters 1-3 and changed all of the blue eye references to orange because wow I don't think Laura has killed anyone? We're just going to assume Laura has never killed anyone despite her intense and burning desire to probably maybe possibly do so. 
> 
> Also, I'm going to take some of the events from On Fire, the Teen Wolf book released between seasons 1 & 2 I think?, and work them in to fit the story and Stiles' time traveling madness. I've never actually read the full book, just the excerpts on tumblr so. Just be aware of that nonsense. 
> 
> ~*~And, yeah, you guys are incredible and I wish you all nothing but the best. If you ever need anything from me then just message me on tumblr or on here and I'll definitely fo my best to help you out because you all are dolls who deserve the best things out of life. I hope you all find twenty dollars on the ground today.~*~


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a panic attack in this chapter but I probably describe it horribly 
> 
> so 
> 
> PSA all I remember about 2007 is myspace and glittergraphics.com

“So,” Laura starts, after she successfully steals a handful of fries off of Derek in retaliation, “I know it's not your preferred place to be, but, how are you liking the past so far?”

Stiles makes a face, “Besides the fact that I have no clue what I'm doing, no clue why I'm doing it, or have the any idea of what is going on, I have to say it's pretty boring,” Stiles takes a large gulp of coke and shrugs nonchalantly, “I mean, so far I've fainted and been kidnapped twice. Pretty much the regular gig.”

Derek and Laura gape at him. She gets a disapproving look on her face and demands, “You make a habit of getting kidnapped?” She turns to Derek and punches him in the shoulder, not even blinking as he flinches back and hisses in pain, “Why are you letting your pack member get kidnapped, you dickhead!”

Stiles tries really hard to not be amused at Derek's flabbergasted expression, “He's not even my pack member right now!” He yelps, indigently.

“God, see, this is why I'm going to be the next alpha!”

“Are you sure it's not because you're a bossy bi-” Derek mutters under his breath, only to squawk loudly as she punches him again.

And then he loses it, laughter bubbling up out of him like happiness as he chokes on a drink of his soda. He tries not to think about how this is the first time he's felt so light in what feels like years, and lets the feeling roll through him. Laura and Derek soon join in until they're all red in the face and leaning on the table for support.

When they calm down, Laura very politely says, “You're still a dick, though, 'Rek.”

“Better a dick than a bitch.”

“A bitch is a dog and dogs go bark and bark grows on trees and trees are a part of nature and nature is beautiful so fuck you very much.”

Stiles places his head in his hands and groans loudly, suddenly realizing that 2007 is nothing but a hotbed of embarrassing internet quotes, “Of all the time periods,” He whines to himself, “Why the one with bad memes?”

“What's a meme?” Laura whispers to Derek loudly.

Derek just shrugs.

While Stiles sits, bemoaning the loss of all of his favorite pop culture, Laura and Derek talk about boring, normal, nonwerewolfy things. Like school. Stiles graduated with a 3.9 and still insist that if he hadn't missed two finals by tracking the movements of a troll with Boyd and Allison he would have even beat Lydia for the spot of valedictorian.

As it was, he just had to settle for fifth best and the knowledge of the woods around Beacon Hills being safe for another week.

“Oh, is Harris a dick here, too?” Stiles interjects as Derek whines about a Chemistry test tomorrow.

Laura groans, “God, that asshole is still teaching in six years? That is probably the worst news, even counting everything you said yesterday.”

Stiles shrugs lightly, not mentioning that Laura is indirectly asking about the future, and shakes his head, “No he, uh, he died. Ritually sacrificed, actually. Was pretty gruesome.”

Stiles avoids looking in Derek's direction as he remembers Ms. Blake. He shudders lightly, seeing her grotesque face twist and hiss in his mind. Either way, the Hales don't notice his change in mood.

While he very deliberately rips off small bits of a napkin, silently wondering how long it's going to take for that caffeine to kick in, Laura and Derek talk about Derek's water polo team. Apparently they're doing well. Stiles doesn't really care, where he's from the team sucks and water polo had never been his thing but hearing Derek talk about swimming makes him remember the incident with the kanima. Stiles tries not to think about how weird it is to remember experiences with a person who hasn't had them yet.

Considering how good at swimming Derek must be, Stiles vaguely wonders how much it must have stung to not be able to do it that entire time.

“I feel bad for Mr. Lahey and everything, but our new coach is way better.” Derek says with a smile, and his eyes are almost sparkling. Stiles resolutely does not compare him to an anime character, too strung up on the other half of that sentence.

Mr. Lahey, as in Isaac's dad? Stiles bites his lip as he remembers pictures of Isaac's dad with the swim team, pictures of his body after it was torn apart by the kanima. Isaac's brother must have died this year. Shit. Stiles' eyes widen as he realizes that Isaac is going to start getting abused soon.

Isaac's dad is going to start locking him in a fucking meat locker.

His heart must speed up at the idea of it, because both Laura and Derek pause to look over at him. Stiles has never hated someone as much as he hates that demon right now. Sending him back in time, leaving him surrounded by all of these horrible things about to happen to his friends and he's not even able to stop it? Stiles feels his blood boil, and he remembers that this is the year that Scott's dad leaves him, and Lydia's parents file for divorce.

That his mom dies.

That last thought feels like a sledgehammer is rammed straight into his chest.

There's a hand on his shoulder and someone is talking but Stiles can't even think beyond the fact that somewhere his mom still might be alive.

“What's the date?” He demands roughly, shaking off the hand. His voice is thick, like he'd been crying or holding his breath, but he doesn't care because _his mom could still be alive._

Laura is perched on his side of the booth now but Stiles doesn't remember that happening. She gives him a weird look, “It's June 22nd. Does it matter?”

Stiles grits his teeth, and he can't stop seeing his mom's smile as she handed him apple slices, can't block out the sound of her laugh whenever he jumped from topic to topic. His hands shake, and he pushes at Laura until she moves out of the booth, giving him space to escape.

“I-I have to go,” He says, distracted, not even looking at either of the Hales.

His mind is buzzing, dates and hospital visits flashing before his eyes. His mom would have only been admitted a few weeks ago. She'll still be relatively healthy. His hands are shaking now, so he balls them and thrust them into his pockets almost angrily.

He's hardly out the door when there's a hand on his elbow, jerking him back. Stiles follows the movement, annoyed, and sees Derek holding him in place.

“What?” He growls. His body is almost vibrating with the need to get out, to go see his mom.

“What's up with you?” Derek asks, scowling, “You're running out of here like a bat out of hell.”

Stiles groans, hands twisting in his pockets. He doesn't have time for this!

“Every minute I'm here is another minute she's dying!” Stiles yells, frustrated and a second away from pulling at his hair.

Laura's suddenly there, nudging Derek out of place. She has a wallet in one of her hands and it's digging into his arm with her tight grip. Her face is a mask of calm and her eyes capture his and try to hold him still, “Stiles,” She says, and her voice is slow and careful, like he's a scared animal, “Who's dying?”

“My mom,” He mumbles, distracted. In his head, he's routing the closest route to the hospital. It's only thirty minutes away if he runs.

Derek and Laura both share a look of realization, finally matching the Stiles in front of them with the boy in Cora's class.

“Stiles _Stilinksi_ ,” Derek says softly to Laura, who nods in acknowledgment.

Stiles isn't really surprised that Derek and Laura know about his mom, but it's mostly because he can't bring himself to care right now. He can still remember all of the casseroles and bun cakes he and his dad had subsided on for six months after she died, like the entirety of Beacon Hills didn't know how to handle loss other than to shove food at it.

“Seriously,” He says quickly, trying to squirm out of the firm grip Laura has on his biceps, “I really, really need to go, okay? Like, right now.”

But Laura and Derek don't even listen to him, already trying to coral him back to the car. He fights against their holds but _werewolves_ and they manage to buckle him in the car without too much of a scene. As soon as they close his door he's undoing his seat belt and scrabbling for the door handle but by the time he has a grip on it Laura already has her finger on the driver side control lock.

“You need to calm down, Stiles,” She says, in that same calm tone. It sounds manual and mechanic and it sets his teeth on edge.

“I don't need to do anything but get to the freaking hospital.” Stiles snaps, glaring at her. “You need to either let me out or take me there.”

Laura's backing out of the parking lot, not even looking at him, when Derek says, almost ashamed, “We're taking you back to Deaton's.”

“Uh, no. No you're not.” Stiles says quickly, “Hospital. That's where we're going.”

“Stiles,” Laura says quietly, like she's in pain, “You don't understand. We can't do that.”

“I don't understand? You're the one who doesn't understand. Laura! It's my _mom_!”

“Yeah, well now you know how I felt when you told me my entire family dies in a few months,” Laura snorts without humor.  
  
Stiles feels a burning anger in his chest at the words. His hands are shaking again as he grits out, “So, what, now you're punishing me? Is that it?”

Laura looks offended and hurt at the words, mouth dropping open as soon as they're out and yells back angrily, “No, you idiot! We're helping you!” She looks away from the road and gestures to him, “Look at you! You're shaking and can hardly even breathe, okay? You need to calm down right now. I'm not letting you go anywhere near that hospital if you can't control yourself.”

“I swear to god, Laura, I can and will fry your battery unless you let me out of this car right now.” Stiles glares at her, and as the words slip out he can feel his magic react, warming along the veins in his arms to his fingertips, little zips of electricity cackling in the webbing of his fingers, prepared to do what he needs.

“You can't just go storming into a hospital demanding to see your mom! You're from the future, Stiles! She wouldn't even recog-”

A loud siren cuts Laura off, red and blue lights flashing in the back window, but the damage has already been done. Stiles feels like she just threw a bucket of ice water on him, and even the warmth of his magic has left him. He sits frozen in his seat, staring blankly at her as the words twist in his mind.

In a second all of the fight drains out of him, leaving him to sit there and god, he absolutely hates this. He feels exactly like the eleven year old boy he's supposed to be in 2007, weak and helpless and so fucking lost. He can't even be mad at Laura, because she's absolutely right, because the thought of his mom not knowing who he is would definitely hurt more than not seeing her at all.

Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

Laura glares at him out of the side of her eye and pulls over to the shoulder of the road. She reaches over him and pulls a piece of paper out of the glove compartment, huffing out an annoyed breath.

“Laura,” Derek hisses in a whisper from the back. “It's the Deputy.”

She looks in the driver side mirror and lets out a low barrage of, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” She whispers to herself, and then looks over at Stiles in pity, “Just follow my lead, okay?”

Which just makes Stiles sit back in a sort of confusion, because yeah, the Deputy is kind of a dick but it's not like he's Satan with a ticket pad, or anything. It isn't until there's a familiar face crouching in front of Laura's window that Stiles understands.

And when he does, he feels like he's going to barf all over her dashboard.

How can his dad look so old and so young at the same time?

His heart slams against his chest instantly, the stuttering beats pulsing throughout his body. The shaking in his hands gets worse until his muscles feel sore, like he's been holding up weights all day, and his breathing comes in pants of breath, like his tired arms have dropped them on his chest.

The erratic breathing does nothing good for his stitches, which pull on his side and make his breathing even worse and the pain is like a needle poked between his ribs. Stiles can hear people talking, but he can't make out the words and suddenly his door is being thrown open and someone is pulling him out of the car. His legs feel like jelly and all he can manage to do is slide gracelessly to the floor before he's leaning to the side and vomits up the lunch he just ate.

There's a voice in his ear, and it sounds familiar but he can't even see and he's still shaking, still struggling to breathe against the agony in his chest. It takes ten minutes of sitting on the side of the road, but the warm hand wrapped around his shoulders slowly brings him back.

“Sorry,” He croaks around a lump in his throat. He tries to laugh, but his eyes are closed and his skin feels clammy and nothing about this is funny.

Did he really just have an anxiety attack? It was building since he realized his mom was still alive, he knew, but that didn't make it any better. Stiles tilts his head back and bangs it against the side of the car lightly, groaning. His limbs feel stiff and he isn't even going to try moving them.

“It's alright,” A voice says, and it only takes a few seconds for it to click that it's his dad's voice. It isn’t' as assuring as it should have been, but he fights against the next wave of panic, “My son gets panic attacks like that all the time.”

Stiles laughs without humor and finally manages to crack open an eyelid. Against the setting sun, he can only see half of his dad's face, set into a familiar half smile. Laura and Derek are standing behind him, Laura wringing her hands and Derek scratching the back of his neck uselessly.

“I feel bad for him then,” Stiles settles on saying, wincing at how his voice still sounds, “They suck.”

His dad laughs and pats him on the back. “Yeah,” He agrees easily, “That they do.”

“I didn't know he was having one,” Laura says. She sounds almost quiet now, voice too soft for the yelling match they had only a while ago. “I'm really sorry, sir. I never would have made him get in the car if I knew.”

She's looking at his dad, but Stiles feels like the words are for him.

“It's alright, Laura. No one was hurt, but someone could have been and that's what's important.” He says, and then looks at Stiles, and Stiles half expects him to make some comment about how Stiles should have known better, but his expression stern, “Next time you're not feeling too well do me a favor, kid? Talk to someone. We can't help if we don't know what's going on.”

He knows that it's the residual left hanging on him from his attack, knows he wouldn't have done it otherwise, but the words make him break out in a wave of crying. It's just too much and he feels strung out to his limits. First hearing about his mom, and now his dad in front of him, caring about him but looking at him like he doesn't even know who he is? Stiles just wants to crawl into his bed and sleep for a few weeks. But he can't because his bed isn't his right now and it won't be for six years and everything sucks and he just wants everything to stop.

Freaking _Deputy Stilinksi_ offers Stiles a small smile and stands up to face Laura.

“I'm letting you kids off with a warning,” He says, “But don't let me catch you speeding like that again. And you,” He turns back to Stiles, “Make sure to keep your seat belt on. And never get in a car if you're feeling an attack coming on, got it?”

Stiles already knows that, has had it drilled into him when his dad first gave him his car keys, but just settles for nodding.

The radio on his hip crackles back to life and Stiles' dad sighs. “Duty calls,” He smiles familiarly, and makes a comment to Derek and Laura about telling someone named Randall hello for him before walking back to his truck.

The Hale's are on him in an instant, crouching down in front of him. Derek makes a face at the barf but beyond a nose twitch he say anything about it. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

Laura tugs him into a hug before he can even blink and is busting out apologies faster than Stiles can keep up.

“It's alright,” He says, though it really isn't, “You were right.”

Her face twist with guilt, “I was just trying to avoid all of,” She waves a hand, “This. I mean, you saw how you handled seeing Derek. Hell, look at how you acted when you saw your dad.” She pulls back and bites her lip, “I just don't want you to be hurt anymore than you are by this and I'm really sorry for making that choice for you.”

“You're right,” He says again, because he's just too exhausted to say anything else. “But I seriously need to get back to Deaton's now. I feel like I'm going to crash any second.”

Laura nods resolutely and her and Derek quickly help him back into the car.

The drive back is too quiet, an awkward atmosphere in the air. Stiles would try to crack it, but his limbs feel like jelly and his throat is still scratchy. Derek helps him out of the car when they get to the apartment building and tells Laura to keep the car running.

Stiles stumbles through the doors and to the elevator, Derek following after him. Once the doors close, he blurts, “I'm sorry. We really were just doing what we thought was best.”

He shrugs and leans against the wall. “I understand that,” He says, choosing to stare at his shoes than at Derek. “It's just... I haven't seen her in six years, you know? I didn't ever think I would get the chance to see her again. I just wasn't prepared for it, I guess.”

Derek nods, like he understands, but Stiles knows he really doesn't. In six years, Derek will understand, and they'll have conversations at length about dead family members and empty places in their hearts and homes, but this Derek only sees death as a thing to come in the future, not something affecting him right now.

“Are you going to break out of here and go see her as soon as we leave?” Derek asks, a small upturn in the corner of his lips hinting at a smile.

“Probably not,” Stiles sighs, “Seeing my dad was hard enough. And he just... The way he looked at me like I was a complete stranger hurt.” Stiles gestures over to where Derek is standing, “Even the way you look at me like you don't know me hurts. I don't know if I'd be able to handle her doing it, too.”

It's quiet for the rest of the elevator ride, but, unlike the car, this one isn't nearly as awkward.

When they get to Deaton's door, Derek asks, “Are you going to avoid us, now?”

Stiles feels himself smirk without meaning to, “Probably, but I doubt that'll stop Laura.”

He opens the door and Derek turns away from Stiles, grinning. He can hear the elevator ding, and the sound of Derek stepping on it, and then silence. Stiles closes the door and considers the merits of just crawling over to the his pullout couch, because his knees feel like they're going to buckle any second, but manfully makes the long walk to the bed.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, body still thrumming with too much adrenaline from his attack, and he's sore in places that ache whenever he shifts on the bed, but when he finally closes his eyes, he doesn't even dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO since like 4 people have asked me about Stiles' tattoos I made a thing using the least amount of effort possible
> 
> [click here to go look at that ](http://the-candy-van.tumblr.com/post/58584925934/nasbab-stiles)


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter takes place over the course of three weeks because I suck a lot so 
> 
> I already have the next chapter written so expect it in like three days

**June 23rd, 2007**

Stiles wakes up to the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. He groans and brings the blanket back up to cover his head, shielding his eyes from the putrid light.

“Good morning, Mr. Stilinksi.” Deaton says, sounding far too cheerful for, Stiles peaks out to find a clock, four in the morning.

“It's too early to be alive,” Stiles whines huddling back under the blanket again.

Deaton chooses not to respond and Stiles groans again, remembering yesterday and meeting Derek and his dad and his panic attack. He flings the blanket off of himself, wishing back for the blissful ignorance that waking up had given him, and stumbles out of his bed.

“The sun isn't anywhere near up yet. You're insane.”

Deaton's scooping bacon in equal portions on a plate when Stiles finds his way out of the bathroom. He's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday but they don't smell too bad so he doesn't make a fuss about changing them. There's eggs on the plate too, along with some pancakes.

“It appears someone ate the entirety of my waffle collection yesterday,” Deaton drones in that calming voice of his.

Stiles doesn't even try to look sheepish, already digging into his food, “Six years without food will do that to a man, Alan.”

Deaton doesn't even dignify him with an eye roll and instead just hands him a warm cup of coffee, “I went by the Hales yesterday. Laura told me what happened.”

Stiles snorts elegantly, “Oh yeah? Which part? Lots of things happened.”

He takes the cup and swallows the burning liquid, letting the bitter, black coffee burn his throat. He pours himself another one while Deaton just watches him.

“The part where you had an anxiety attack over not being able to see your mother.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, setting his cup on the counter with a heavy clank and rounding on him with one finger, “There was a lot of things to be anxious about going on, okay? First she dragged me to meet Derek and then told me my mom was still alive and then I had to have a conversation with my dad because little miss werewolf couldn't even bother to drive the speed limit!”

“What were you planning to do when you got to the hospital, Stiles?” Deaton asks, eyes kind, “I'm sure you know I don't condone any kind of magic that could bring a person back to life-”

Stiles sputters and flails and yelps, “Dude! I wasn't even thinking about that. I just wanted to see her, okay? I swear. I wasn't going to do any voodoo magic on my mom to keep her from dying.”

Deaton shrugs, “It's not like she hasn't tried almost everything anyway. I just wanted you to understand that you can't save her.”

Stiles feels like he swallows lead at the comment and then drops his fork to his plate, “What do you mean she's tried almost everything? Dude. My mom isn't magic.”

Deaton stares at him passively in that annoying way of his, “Isn't she? Stiles, how did you think that you became a spark in the first place?” He takes a bite of bacon, not breaking eye contact, “I'm just concerned seeing as that would be the second attack you've had. You've only been here for three days now, Stiles. We haven't even begun our research yet and this might very well be an adverse effect to this time leap.”

Stiles waves him off, too busy focusing on the idea that _his mom is magic what_ ,“I use to get these all the time, okay? There's nothing magical about them. It's just me.” He puts some butter on his pancake and mixes it in with syrup before taking a large bite and adds, “By the way, we are totally having a conversation on how to drop the bomb on someone that their mom is a spark too because you, frankly, suck at it. Speaking of that research though, do you know when we could start?”

Deaton doesn't work on the weekends, so the pair spend the next two days working through summaries and marking down what books may or may not be helpful.

A werewolf comes by, but Stiles ignores them in favor of looking through a promising book. Deaton sends them away.

* * *

 

**June 25th, 2007**

Laura is at the door not even two minutes after Deaton pulls out of the parking structure. She looks angry, eyes blown wide like they are right before she shifts and she growls out his name in a manner that would send lesser men into a fit of distress.

Stiles is behind a mountain ash barrier, though, so he just meets her stare coolly and greets her in a much more polite manner. (By which he really just glares at her and says her name in a mock growl that makes her eyebrow twitch in annoyance.)

“You've been ignoring me”

“I've been reading,” Stiles rolls his eyes and gestures to the mound of books behind him, “There's a difference.”

Laura doesn't seem to care much for the distinction. “It's not like I don't have better things to do than stand at your door, Stiles. Are you going to let me in or not?”

Stiles pretends to think about it and then shrugs, “Not.”

He then kicks the door closed in her angry looking face and pretends to not hear her banging on it for a full ten minutes after. If he can read over Boyd and Erica having sex upstairs then he can damn well block out her angry muttering.

* * *

 

 

**June 28th, 2007**

Stiles is almost at his wits end when Deaton calls in a favor and sends over two emissaries, Leah and Jocelyn, he's on good terms with. They're both tall and walk with an amazonian like grace. They don't even trip over his piles of books and easily navigate their way through his piles.

When they're situated, Stiles can tell they're two of the people from the picture by Deaton's computer. It makes him itch to take a closer peak at it, and when he does he finds himself surprised to not only see Ms. Morrell in the picture, but Ms. Blake too.

As he puts the picture down he calmly asks, “You two wouldn't happen to know Deucalion, would you?”

Leah makes an unpleasant face and Jocelyn looks down right sympathetic. It's the latter who says, with a hand over her heart, “Oh, yes. He used to be such an incredible alpha. He believed in democracy and alliances and last I heard he was working on bringing the packs together to form a giant pack. He thinks it'll be safer if we're fighting with each other than standing alone.”

The other one shakes her head, “Marin Morrell says he's abandoning that idea now. I don't know. I don't trust him. She says he spends all of his time in his room and only lets her in and acts nothing but a maddened fool whenever she's there. He hasn't seen any of his betas in months-”

“That's understandable, Leah. The poor man lost his eyesight and had to kill his second in command not too long after.”

“An alpha is supposed to draw strength from his pack, not completely abandon them just because he's a bit depressed,” She sniffs, “I'm thinking of telling Ennis to withdraw our alliance from him all together.”

Stiles' heart thuds maddeningly in his chest as he sputters, “Ennis? You're Ennis' emissary?”

Leah eyes him critically, her brown eyes locking on his as she tilts her head. “Alan said you were a time traveler. Tell me, boy, what do you know of my pack's future?” Her smile turns wicked and sharp, “Come, let's play a game of fortune teller.”

Jocelyn smacks her on the arm with a harsh look, “He also said to leave the boy alone. He's one of our own. Don't go messing with his head for your own game.”

Leah snorts and the sound makes Stiles back up closer to the wall, “One of ours? He's too young to know much, Jocelyn. I bet he doesn't even have a pack in his time. Tell me, Stiles, was it?, do you have a pack?”

Her tone is deceptively sweet but it's one that he's seen Lydia use to bring down high school girls all the time and it sets him on edge. His palms tingle in warmth and he leaves them loose at his sides, ready in case he needs them.

“Yes,” He declares simply, and it's enough to break the grin from her face for a few seconds before she changes it for a smirk, “And I need to get back to them. So, if you're going to help me, then great. Stick around. But if you're going to sit around here and gossip and try to get me to trade secrets then you should just leave now,” She doesn't look convinced at all. He makes an open globe with his hands and lets flames lick out of his palms and bleed into his fingertips until it's enveloping his entire forearm in flame. He doesn't even feel the heat and his skin doesn't burn, but the fire roars and rolls around his arms, a promise that he can and will complete, “before I make you.”

Leah tips her head back in a laugh and the shock of it makes the fire on his arms dissipate, “You are a spark, aren't you?” She grins, and there isn't any evil intent behind it at all.

Jocelyn rolls her eyes, “Sorry,” She says with a weak smile, “She has a thing for games. You get used to her. Let's get to work though, shall we? I have to get back to my pack soon and since I am the runic expert here,” She shoots Leah a smug grin, “I'm going to need you to take your shirt off.”

Overcome by a ginormous sense of whiplash, Stiles does as she asks and wonders if all emissaries are this insane.

Jocelyn traces his runes down in a notebook, muttering to herself all the while, and makes a face at his protection ward when she gets to it. She doesn't comment though, and just continues copying them down.

“I don't see anything here that could be manipulated like Alan thinks it has,” She says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, “But the fact that the magic stored in the runes is gone is a bit alarming. It's possible that the demon that sent you back used your stored up magic to be able to do this but I've never heard of it before.”

“And that you can still manipulate elements is weird too,” Leah says, frowning, “Have you been able to do much else?”

“I made a small ward last week but...”

“So this demon obviously knew what it was doing.” Jocelyn concludes, a worried look on her face. “The only question remaining is why.”

Basically, they don't tell him anything he doesn't already know.

* * *

 

 

**June 29th – July 6th, 2007**

Laura's out of school for the summer now and has taken to sitting vigilant outside of Deaton's door. Stiles never really knew someone who liked to talk as much as he did before he met Laura and vaguely considers the idea of Derek hating him rambling so much because it reminded him of Laura.

Down that road lays ideas of Derek hating him because he could have saved his family and didn't, though, so he quickly shoves that idea from his head.

She talks about pretty much everything, though. About how pissed she was that he missed her graduation. About her boyfriend Brad and how she's considering telling him about the whole werewolf thing. About what she's thinking about doing for college. About her friends and what they're planning on doing this summer and how much easier she'd be able to do those things if she didn't have to sit there and wait for him to talk to her.

The only time he does respond is when he tries to pull that guilt trip on him, _(“I could be having fun, Stiles, do you realize how you're ruining my last summer with my family?”)_ , that he breaks his silence and throws a thick book at the door. She cackles for an entire three minutes.

The days when she talks about her family are the worst though. He knows it's a tactic hostage negotiators use, and the idea that it's being used on him makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. She talks about Cora and how sweet she is, which really doesn't correlate with his memory of her, but okay. She talks about her mom and how great of an alpha she is and how she would love to take Stiles in as their own and how they even have a nice spare guest room that he can stay in if he wants. She talks about her human dad, Rand, which irks Stiles for some reason. Why hadn't his Derek ever told him his dad was a human?

Sometimes she even talks about Derek. She says she's worried about him, that now that it's summer he's staying out late and not coming home on the weekends. She says she hardly ever sees him and when she does he reeks of sex. Stiles tries to not feel too guilty, even as something twist in his gut and whispers that it's starting.

“He hasn't acted like this in a year. We all thought he was getting better, you know? That he was moving on from Paige,” Well, that answers that question, “You know who Paige is, right?” Stiles doesn't answer. Laura doesn't wait for one. “He did the most ridiculous stuff after that. He stayed in bed for like, two months. Refused to even go to school. He had to repeat a grade. You know he's supposed to be a senior now? But, no now he's going to start his junior year in the fall. Or, well, he's supposed to. I don't know what's going to happen now. You've changed a lot of things, Stiles.

“Mom and dad won't even make plans for things months away and all they want to do is spend time with everyone. Uncle Peter thinks we should torture you,” Stiles' heart speeds up at that, but Laura hurries on, “Don't worry though. Mom won't let him.”

That doesn't comfort Stiles as much as Laura thinks it should, especially since Stiles has been on the receiving end of Peter's wrath before.

The last day Laura visits she just sits there and cries, and Stiles aches to open the door and comfort her but he restrains himself. He can’t even focus on the book in his lap with her sobs so loud. He doesn't know how long she cries for, but it feels like days and his bones ache from sitting still for so long. He's too afraid to even breathe loudly, like she'll just tear the door down and kill him herself.

“I had a plan, you know?” She hiccups around a sob, “I was going to get you to see that we're real. We're real people, Stiles. We're not just Derek's dead family. We're living, breathing people who deserve a chance to live. And you can save us, you know? You totally could. You could be like our own little hero. And I _know_ that it's asking a lot of you.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Stiles can hear the swift sound of her growing her nails. It's a calming tactic he's seen Derek use before. “I know you have a life and a future and friends and a family waiting for you, but I have that here. I have that here and you just came in and told me that it's all going to be gone in a few months and I don't know how to deal with that.”

They're both quiet. Half an hour goes by with them just breathing through the door, listening to each other before Laura finally says, “Don't you think we're worth it?”

It makes Stiles want to cry again at how much he truly does.

* * *

  
**July 10th, 2007**

The days are long and quiet without Laura.

Stiles feels too empty to even read any of the books Deaton left out for him. Instead he tries to familiarize himself with all the ingredients in the closet but he doesn't get very far.

Deaton comes home to find him sitting on the floor crying and wordlessly sends him to bed.

* * *

 

**July 12th, 2007**

Talia comes to visit him. Stiles is surprised by her sudden visit, having completely forgot her promise to Deaton to come talk to him when he was physically healed.

Stiles doesn't really think he's healed all that physically, but holds the barrier off enough for her to come in. He doesn't think Talia Hale will take to sitting on in the hallway as well as Laura did.

Her eyes rove over the books before shaking her head and smiling softly at him, “Mr. Stilinksi,” She says, “I hear Laura's been talking to you. I hope she wasn't too much trouble for you.”

Stiles shakes his head, a rock dropping to his stomach at the mention of Laura, “Uh, no, no, she was fine.”

She nods like she doesn't believe him, “Well, at least I've raised one of my children right.”

Talia shakes her head almost sadly and Stiles wonders if it has anything to do with what Laura said about Derek sneaking off to see Kate.

The rock in his stomach turns to lead and he quickly sits down on the couch before his knees start to buckle.

“Is there anything I can do to help you, Mrs. Hale?” Stiles asks, and then immediately winces.

Talia just smiles kindly, “Yes, well, there are a many number of things you can do for me, Mr. Stilinksi. I'm sure you already know the most important one. The other one, well, it's more of a social gesture, really. My family is having a party on the fourteenth. It's a celebration the moon, and all, you know, strictly Hale traditions. I'm sure you're well aware of them.”

Stiles tries to not let it show that he has no clue what Hale traditions she's talking about and just nods along. Fucking Derek and his damn need to distance himself from anything reminding him of his family.

“I was wondering if you would like to come. I'm sure Laura and Derek would love to have you.”

Stiles scratches the back of his neck, remembering what Laura said about her plan to see them as real people, and quickly shakes his head, “Uh, thanks for the offer, Mrs. Hale, but I really don't think that's a good idea.”

She nods like she understands, “Well, never the less, I can smell you're still not healed completely, and if I did try to talk to you in this state I'm sure Alan would have an aconite injection in me before you could even respond. You should expect me back in a few weeks though and we'll have that discussion.”

Before she gets to the door, Talia turns to Stiles. Her face is set in a frown, a complete change from the smile she had on only a second ago, “I hate to ask, but, I know Laura told you about Derek and... I was wondering if you know what he's up to.”

And Stiles doesn't want to, but her face is so damn motherly and concerned that he finds himself nodding.

“And is he- is he happy? With whatever it is he's doing?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, not knowing how to answer. Derek's happy in the moment, sure. He thinks he's in love with all of his cootie sharing with Kate, but in the future? No. He's nowhere near happy.

But Stiles nods again, and it's not exactly a lie so his heart doesn't betray him, and Talia Hale nods resolutely, like her son's happiness is the only thing that matters, and leaves without even a look back.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW I SAID THREE DAYS BUT I GUESS I HAVE CONTROL ISSUES AND YOU GUYS ARE SO AWESOME AND
> 
> i suck wow
> 
> Like I said before ~some events are taken from the mini webisodes The Search For The Cure which are cute and funny like A+ go watch them~

On the day of the Hale's moon party, or whatever, Stiles is second guessing his choice to not go. It's ultimately Deaton who helps him decide by setting him down with a new pile of books he brought over from Morrell.

“So, exactly how far have you gotten in your training?” Deaton asks lightly, his eyes looking over his reading glasses at Stiles and his head titled to the side curiously.

Stiles knows how this conversation is going to go, but he opens his mouth anyway and admits with a squeak, “We skipped all of the basics and went right to the defensive stuff.”

Deaton sighs despairingly, not even offering Stiles' face a sympathetic glance.

At the time, Stiles knew it was wrong to not train for months and years on the basics, had listened to Deaton's lectures on proper hand movements and feelings and beliefs and desires. Stiles had met other Sparks and he knew he was supposed to spend an entire year just focusing on his belief and storing his core energy, but other Sparks didn't run with wolves and have to fight Alpha packs or monsters.

He was a victim of circumstance, what can he say?

“You said I was strong enough anyway that if I just meditated in my personal time-”

“And did you meditate in your personal time, Stiles?”

Stiles knows it will be futile to lie to Deaton now. They've been living in the same space for three weeks. Stiles knows that Deaton wakes up at 3 am in a sweat and takes long showers and can't stand the thought of going to bed without checking every lock and line of ash in his apartment. Deaton knows Stiles leaves messes during the day because he likes the house to feel lived in, and will always make sure it's clean before he passes out no matter how dirty. They've developed a strange kinship over their short time together, one Stiles never thought he'd have with the vet, and so he shakes his head and admits to never having meditated in his life.

Deaton doesn't berate him, though, he just takes his glasses off and closes the book in his lap. He places it on the ground next to the pile of Stuff That Stiles Wants To Look In After He's Found Something Useful and picks up another from the shelf.

“Why defensive spells?” He asks, as he flips open the worn, leather book, “From what you told Talia, I'd have thought you would want something a little more... Aggressive.”

Stiles smiles, and shrugs, “Don't get me wrong, I can kick ass as well as a werewolf. I can make fire and electricity, and when I left we were studying my focus on earth. Since I had a pack of werewolves at my beck and call it just didn't seem like I needed more, you know? They had claws and teeth and speed, but when I started learning you said it would be better if I focused on defending us? I basically just stood in the back and did some quick healing stuff. I'm also pretty good at area wards.

“I put one over the entire preserve one time when we were being chased by Goblins,” Stiles' grin widens at the memory, at the instinctual magic that pulled itself from him. He could still remember the feeling of pressing his hands deep into the dirt of the Earth despite the pack telling him to run, can practically feel the thrum that pulsed inside him as he closed his eyes and willed every ounce of belief he had into the land.

And when he'd gotten up, the Goblins that'd been chasing him were trapped two feet away from him. Erica and Isaac followed them as they ran around the entire perimeter of the town to get at them, but there was no weak point they could exploit.

“It was flawless,” Stiles summarizes in an awed voice, “It was like an out of body experience.”

Stiles is surprised when Deaton matches his smile, “That was the moment your magic must have settled in you, then,” He nods sagely, “It's your soul choosing exactly how your stronger magic will be used in the future. With you it's protection, I imagine. When it happened with me, I was fighting with a Fae creature that wanted to take my sister. I was twelve.”

Stiles suddenly remembers his first meeting with Laura and Derek, and raises an eyebrow, “Derek said there hasn't been a magic user in Beacon Hills in centuries.”

“There hasn't. I'm from Oregon, and your mother was from Poland, as you well know. You're the first spark to have been born here in a hundred years, Stiles.”

There's a wave of peaceful silence as both men bond over the experience, and then, “I like you,” Stiles decides without permission, shocking himself and Deaton as the words slip from his mouth. At Deaton's inquiring stare, Stiles suddenly finds his shoes very interesting, “I just- future you didn't like to share stuff like that. You'd just say something vague and annoying and leave me to figure things out myself.”

Deaton raises an eyebrow, “Do you think it could have something to do with you appearing here and me telling you all of this now?”

Stiles releases a puff of air in annoyance and pulls at his hair. “I don't know? Maybe? If I think about it too much I just go in circles and it's annoying,” He whines like a child. Stiles snaps the book shut and puts it in the useless pile before curling up on himself a little, too tired to read anymore tonight. “Time travel doesn't really have any set perimeters, that I've been able to find. If anyone has ever done this, then they didn't document it in any of these books, which is kinda stupid don't you think?

“But, it could be of them just not wanting others to meddle with time and change things? Or maybe this is all meant to happen anyway? Maybe this isn't even real and I'm in some weird coma.” Stiles hiccups a laugh, “Or, maybe I'm just meant to fade from existence.”

It isn't until Deaton places a comforting hand on his shoulder that Stiles realizes there are tears falling down his face. It's not full blown sobbing like he'd been doing a few weeks ago, back when everything was new and fresh, but they feel like a resignation, like he's giving up, which he's not. He swipes at them in anger until his face is red and his eyes are puffy, but at least he's not crying.

After a beat of silence, Deaton says softly, “Do you think you're supposed to be here?”

Stiles shrugs, “I don't know? Sometimes I do, and it feels right like I'm back in my own time, but then I turn around to look at Scott's reaction to something or reference something that happens years in the future and I just feel so out of place.”

Deaton hums thoughtfully, then asks, “Would it be such a bad thing if you changed the course of history?”

Stiles doesn't even blink at the question, having rolled it over his head only days before, “I think, maybe, things would be better? Like, sometimes I think I'm supposed to and I just want to warn someone, but then I'm afraid of saving everyone from the wrong thing and something even worse comes to take its place? And then I wonder why would _I_ be sent back? Why would that demon want me to do this, you know? Demons aren't really known for saving the world or anything. I figure if it sent me back it just wants me to do its dirty work and destroy the time line.”

The hand on his shoulder tightens in grip, “Stiles, are you one hundred percent sure that it was a demon?”

“Well, it looked like a demon and acted like a demon. I don't really see what else it could be?” Stiles remembers how it laughed at Lydia and him for chanting at it, how it blew their circle apart with ease, and he's decidedly less sure. It had been doing everything demon's did, though, and it was terrorizing the town for weeks before Lydia was able to track it down.

In a flash Deaton abandons him on the couch and is hastily looking through the shelves in his secret room, “Maybe we've been looking in the wrong place this entire time.”

Stiles grimaces at the hopeful look on Deaton's face. He tries to ignore the churning inside him, the mild anger that feels like someone is just poking at him with a needle. “Or, maybe I've just been sent here to ruin the time line and trigger the apocalypse.”

Deaton rolls his eyes, still looking for a specific book, “I know you don't believe that. If you did, you would have avoided the Hales at all cost, and you wouldn't even be talking to me right now.”

Stiles rolls himself off of the couch and walks over to stand next to Deaton, pouting at the man because he knows he's right.

“What would your Derek want you to do?” Deaton asks suddenly, as he pulls out a book and studies its index.

“He'd want me to keep looking until I had something more solid than an instinct.” Stiles supplies, but even as he says it, he knows it's a lie, know as soon as he would have admitted to having doubts that Derek would have dropped a hand on his shoulder and told him to do what he thought was best, because Derek was more wolf than human, because Derek was raised to trust his instincts no matter what, because Derek trusted Stiles.

And that? It decidedly hurts, because he wants that back; their easy camaraderie, their partnership. He fought for that trust. He struggled to get Derek to accept him into the pack and to look at him as more than a human and Scott's best friend. He's so tired of everyone here looking at him like he's some magical spirit guru, like he's a stranger. He wants his friends back. He wants his pack and he wants their security. He needs them, needs them now more than ever.

Deaton rest a careful hand on his shoulder, drawing Stiles out of his trance. Stiles looks down and sees that his hands were curled at his sides, shaking, and he can feel the small zaps of electricity zipping between the tips of his fingers.

“I know this has been stressful for you,” Deaton says, and his eyes are more gentle then Stiles has ever seen them, “I'm not going to say I can even begin to imagine what it feels like, but I know you're in pain, Stiles, and I know I want nothing more than to provide you with the answers you seek.”

Stiles is drained. He's been emotionally exhausted ever since he got here, and he's too tired to fight Deaton as he guides him back to the couch.

“Now, rest. Tomorrow we're going to try something different.”

There's a knocking at the door, and Deaton leaves Stiles sitting on the couch to get it. Whomever it is, they're speaking in low voices, but Stiles can pick up a few scathing words here and there. He tries to ignore it, maybe it's a neighbor telling them to keep it down or something, but then Deaton is grunting and out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see him being pushed aside.

Stiles has never been alone with the man in front of him, but he can remember him sitting at the able next to Talia on Stiles' first day in the past. Laura had described him, but she never mentioned just how much he and Derek look. Rand Hale is suddenly there, standing in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he sees Stiles, and Stiles can see a hint of blood on his shirt. His eyes widen a fraction, mouth dropping open as he sees it.

And then he's being hauled up and pushed against a wall. It's a move Stiles should be used to, considering Rand's son in the future has done it numerous times, but then Rand snarls in his face. And Rand's a _human_ so that shouldn't be possible, but he's a werewolves mate, so maybe he's picked up a few things.

His hazel eyes drill holes into Stiles', and he looks like he wants nothing more than to carve out his heart and feed it to his family.

“Talia's been shot. Did you know that, Stiles?” Rand asks, and then he smiles a toothy smile that looks more like Derek when he barred his teeth, and Stiles is suddenly thrown back into the wall. His head hits it with a harsh _thwap_ , and Stiles fights the groan of pain that swells in his throat. “Of course you did!” Rand roars, and Stiles shrinks back at the sound.

 _What?_ How could Talia be shot? Kate isn't supposed to murder them for another few months, and even then she doesn't resort to bullets or arrows or anyth- Oh. How could he forget searching for a cure with Scott? Talking to that doctor? How could he forget the werewolf that got sent to the hospital?

Now that he remembers, he knows it was Derek and Talia in the picture file he saw. Knows it because he's seen them, and, of course it was them, how could it be any other werewolves in Beacon Hills but the Hales?

But it doesn't make sense. Why is Rand yelling at him for this? Why is it happening now? Stiles wraps his hands around Rand's wrist, trying to get him to release his grip on his shirt.

“Look, I don't know what you're talking abou-”

Rand quickly cuts him off, “You do. I know you do. I can see it your face. You knew that there were hunters prowling around, didn't you? You knew Talia would get shot. You didn't even warn us-”

Stiles is not letting Rand blame this on him, especially when he literally just figured this out. Stiles glares at him and pushes feebly at his chest, “Talia wouldn't want me doing anything to disable the time line! Look, she's fine so what does it even matter?”

“She got taken to the hospital! We're risking exposure, and that arrow might be in her _arm_ , but do you know how close it was to her _heart_?” Rand shakes him again, more violently, and Stiles feels nauseated because he knows what Rand is going through. He's had to dig arrows and bullets out of his pack, had to administer wolfs bane and pray they made it through the night and berate them for getting hurt at all. He knows what it's like to be the human in a pack of wolves.

“She almost died because of you and your stupid, childish need to preserve your sham of a future!” Rand bellows, and Stiles shrinks back. He could easily escape him, he knows. Could easily overpower him with his magic and ask him to leave, but it's like the fight has drained out of him because it's the truth. Stiles may not have been aware of this situation, but he knows about the one that's coming. He knows where Derek goes on the weekends and after practice. He could tell Talia or Rand or Laura or any of the Hales and they could stop it.

Stiles can't stop Rand from yelling at him, because every time he looks into his eyes all he can see is Derek. Derek yelling at him, Derek knowing he could have stopped him from falling for Kate Argent, Derek hating him for not saving his family, and Stiles just wants to tear his hair out and barf and maybe throw himself off of a cliff because of all the deaths that are going to be his fault.

Is this why Derek was so cold to him those early months of Scott being turned? Derek couldn't have known though. Stiles can't picture Derek sitting up with him on early Sunday mornings and drinking coffee and making breakfast, can't see Derek saving his life time and time again, can't see him letting Stiles drag him to boring movies on pack nights if he blamed Stiles for his families death.

Rand shakes him again. His face twist in disgust, like even looking at Stiles is cause for him to vomit his lunch, and drops him to the ground. Stiles falls and doesn't even try to stop himself. He feels like a black hole, like he's sucking everything in and killing all of it just for touching it. His body feels numb, but his mind is going over his every interaction with Derek in his time, searching for some clue that the man hates him for this, hates him for these deaths that he causes, but he can't find anything and he feels even more lost than he did when he showed up in front of Laura weeks ago.

Rand crouches in front of him, and he looks even more wolfish than all of the Hales combined. He lifts Stiles' head, and Stiles tries to squirm away, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

“You're greedy,” Rand says softly, like it's a secret, “You're just a selfish child who's been given this opportunity to save my wife and children from a horrible death, and you won't take it because you want your own life back so badly.”

Stiles flinches away from his words like a punch to the gut, and Rand drops his head. Stiles lets it fall, choosing to stare at the man's shoes because it hurts to even meet his gaze.

“I don't care who kills my family, or how, or why,” Rand tells him, and then, harsher, like he's spitting the words, “As far as I'm concerned, you'll always be the one who murders us.”

“That's _enough_ , Randall.” Deaton's voice is harsh and unforgiving, “You do not get to blame Stiles for events that aren't his fault.”

Rand rounds on Deaton, yelling, “But he can stop it! Alan, you _know_ that he can save us. I know that you talked to Talia just last week-”

Stiles throat clenches shut, and he leans over and reaches out for a plotted plant, only to empty the contents of his stomach in it. Rand watches him, looking at him like he's nothing better than sewer water, and it only makes Stiles gasp out for breath and sob like he's been gutted.

“I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Hale. I'll be by shortly to check on Talia.”

And then Rand is gone, striding out of the house without even looking back at Stiles.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath of air. He flexes his hands in front of him, breathing deep to fight off the anxiety attack he feels pressing in on him. With a hint of desperation, Stiles asks the room, “Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

His voices is rough and cracks through the sentence, and he doesn't even have to lift a hand to his face to know he's crying.

Deaton doesn’t look phased by the question. He pours a glass of water, like he did the first night he brought Stiles home like a stray. "No, I don’t," He says carefully, "In the entire time you’ve been here, I’ve never seen you be anything less than kind."

Stiles chokes on a sob and swallows around the rock in his throat, “Then why do I feel so guilty?”

Deaton hands him the cup, his eyes sad, “Because, in a way, you are.”

He lets the words wash over him, accepting them as the truth he knows them to be. He's guilty by default. What would his dad call him? An accessory for murder, just by having the knowledge that he does.

Stiles shakes out his head and his arms and forces himself off of the floor. He downs the cup of water in two gulps to get rid of the acid taste of bile in his mouth and drops the cup on the coffee table. He can't let this go on any longer than it has. He wants answers, dammit. He's tired of guessing and skirting around the issue, tired of feeling so sorry for himself when there are things so much bigger than him going on.

“What was that idea you had?” Stiles asks, and is proud that his voice doesn't shake.

It still sounds weak, but it's a start.

Deaton frowns at him, “Stiles, you've had a very emotionally trying day. Please, lay down and sleep and we'll try tomorrow-”

“Please,” Stiles cuts him off with a beg. He looks at Deaton and tries to get him to understand. “I can't handle this anymore, so whatever you want to do just do it. _Please_.”

Deaton eyes him skeptically, and whatever he sees must be enough because he sighs in defeat not a minute later.

“We can try to summon whatever brought you here. Maybe it can provide some answers,” Deaton says as he opens the book he set down before Rand showed up. Stiles nods enthusiastically. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner?

“We're going to need some things,” Deaton sighs heavily, “Get some chalk, four purple candles, and vial #9 from the closet. It should be in the bottom right hand drawer under the box of cherub tears.”

Stiles does as he's asked as Deaton roots around in the kitchen. Having already made himself well acquainted with the closet a week ago, Stiles is able to find the items easily. He wishes his Deaton could have brought him back to this place. The clinic isn't nearly as well stocked as it should be. Stiles tells Deaton this as he loots the items back over to the kitchen counter, but Deaton doesn't respond.

He takes the vial of mountain ash wordlessly from Stiles' pile. After popping open the lid, he pours it in a bowl and mixes it with salt, whispering under his breath all the while.

“Did we ever get to lessons about rituals in your time?” Deaton asks as he pulls out another bowl and a rack of herbs.

Stiles shakes his head, “No, uh, you left that kind of stuff to Lydia and she would only tell me stuff on a need to know basis.”

Deaton looks annoyed but accepts the information. Lydia knew Archaic Latin and was always the most logical choice for that sorta thing anyway.

“Grab that book and open to page 930. Start at the top and keep going until the end of page 932.”

The book is leather bound, like a journal, but is as thick as his throat. It's all hand written in slanted cursive, and the pages are a dried yellow and smell like drywall. Some of the early pages are water trodden, and stick together and blur the words, like someone was trying to erase information.

“Where do you even find all of these books? You never told me.”

Deaton shrugs, “Most are passed down through the family. My sister keeps careful archives of our kind and is usually able to step in when the family line ends before the books are sold to people who don't know what they're for.” He stops, suddenly, and then turns to look over his shoulder, “She hasn't decided what to do when your mother passes though, forgive me. I believe they should still be in your house, if you ever feel like looking.”

Stiles gulps and looks away from Deaton. He didn't know he had family books. God, there's so much his mom never told him, so much she could have taught him. He could probably get them now, easily. His mom is in the hospital, and his dad is usually either at the station or there. He pushes it from his mind, not wanting to think about that connection to his mother now. He turns back to the book.

* * *

  _ **(This ritual is used to call upon a spirit that the user knows almost nothing about. It consists in having prepared five lit candles, either purple or red, at the ends of a a ritual circle (diagram below) drawn in either chalk or blood (the casters blood would be more potent). A bowl with herbs, Agrimony, Damiana, Mistletoe, Chamomile, and Desert Sage, in that order, should be mixed together and then placed in the centre of a circle made of salt and mountain ash (These should be added in equal parts and placed around the edge of your circle for maximum protection).**_

_**The performer should then recite the following incantation in Latin: "Qua invocaverimus te / vos spiritum potentem / Quamquam ignoremus nomen et genus / Et exaudi nos hoc audire".** _

_**While doing this, the summoner must think very hard about this creature. Recall your senses to call this spirit to you. You must trust yourself, for you run the risk of calling another.** _

* * *

The rest of the page continues on with measurements for the circle, the herbs, and even details what one should do if they find themselves with a truly horrifying creature instead of the chosen summons.

Stiles wants to bang his head on the table. This is why he hates rituals. There's always so many blind spots where things can, and will, go wrong. He gets a flash of the demon breaking the circle, of it throwing everyone back and their bodies flopping to the ground, and shudders.

Lydia's ring was only made of salt. Maybe that's why it didn't work the first time? It's not like Lydia to forget such an important detail, though. But that was a banishment ritual, wasn't it? And this one is a summoning. Stiles' head hurts, so he quietly closes the book and places it back on the table.

“So, this will work, right?”

Deaton shrugs, “I hope so. If not, then I'm out of ideas. Come help me move this rug out of the way, Mr. Stilinski.”

Together, they clear the area and then Deaton settles on his knees to carefully trace a circle. He doesn't even need the books diagram, seeming to know all the lines by heart. His hands don't even shake, creating a flawless circle.

Stiles lights the candles and places them periodically around the edge while Deaton sprinkles the salt and mountain ash in his hands. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and then throws it up in the air. Stiles watches, and can see the moment where Deaton's belief takes hold and forms the ring before it falls to the ground.

“Do you know what you need to do now, Stiles?” Deaton asks, softly, and Stiles takes a second to breathe before he nods. Deaton smiles calmly at him, “It's easy. Just think about what happened, what you heard, smelt, saw, and repeat the words.”

Deaton opens the book and hands it to him, nodding at Stiles as if to say, _you got this._

And Stiles does have this. He can do it, knows he can, deep in his gut. It's not like he's been able to forget the demon, as every time he closes his eyes to sleep it's there again, murdering his friends.

So, he thinks about it. Remembers the way it appeared in Lydia's circle. A sickly black shape that seemed to take on the form of a human, if only a bit rough around its curled edges. The way it's mouth opened impossibly wide, just a pit of darkness in a forest of screams, before it swallowed him whole. Its freakishly cold hands, gripping his hip and shoulder, making him shiver and fight and scream as it ran a sharp, clawed hand down his side. The smell of blood and sand that clung to it, the sound of its voice as it whispered words in Stiles' ear, words he still can't remember no matter how hard he tries.

And when he opens his eyes, he knows they're a bit brighter than they should be, and he focuses them on the middle of the circle as he repeats the incantation flawlessly.

Then it's there, standing in Deaton's living room.

It looks the same as it did that night weeks ago, or is it years ahead? Its body is just a pit of pitch black, making Stiles' eyes start to fuzz as he stares at it, and its mouth opens in a dark grin. Its shape flickers and fidgets into focus as it stays still, looking Stiles up and down.

And when it speaks, it's voice is double tinged, like it's two people speaking at once.

“Ah, and what's this then?” It purrs, positively delighted as it looks at Stiles with its bright white eyelets, “Ring me up for a social call, deary? Or are you looking for a deal?”

It's like a man and a woman are speaking at the same time, both deep and manly and high and falsetto. The voice rings in his ears, and he wants to cover them with his hands but stands his ground. Stiles snaps the book shut and hands it to Deaton, who holds it with his arms folded behind his back.

“It's you, right? You're the demon who sent me here?” Stiles demands, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively. His hand unconsciously rubs against his side, remembering the feel of its claws slicing through his protection ward.

The thing cackles madly, and the sound of it makes the hairs on his arm stand on end, “Demon?” It sputters, and then goes back to laughing, “I'm no demon, child. I would never degrade myself to such filth. Demon's fear me, deary. They just have to see me coming and run themselves back down to hell.”

It laughs again, arms wrapped around its stomach and head tilted back and if it had enough features, Stiles might say it would look gleeful.

“Give me a second to catch up, child. I was just in 1870 trying to convince my dear Esther Morris to thank me in her speech, a little joke between old friends, you know?” It grins, mouth impossibly wide in a way that makes Stiles want to take a step back, “Ah, let's see. It's... 2007. Correct?”

Deaton nods, “Yes. Now, will you be so kind as to tell us what you are?”

It cackles again, “Ah, you're so clueless! The last group that called to me didn't know what I was either. Although, it was 1692. People were a bit on edge back then, you understand don't you deary? Being a _witch_ and all?” Deaton shifts uncomfortable at the mocking smile it gives him. It's minuscule, but Stiles has never seen Deaton show any emotion but calm in the face of a threat, and it's enough to set Stiles further on edge than he already was, “Ah, dears, I'm a timekeep. I'm surprised you knew enough to summon me at all! My kind don't really leave enough hints to be caught unawares, you know?”

“Yeah, that's why you murdered all of my friends and sent me back in time, right?” Stiles says, snidely. He's never even heard of a timekeep, and from a look at Deaton, he hasn't either.

That seems to stop the timekeep. It finally stops smiling, stops laughing, and just stares at Stiles. It shrugs, “I know nothing of that. It seems you've caught me in my young age, gentlemen. Although, that is a bit odd. I don't make a habit of murder, you see. Too messy, no. My job is just to make sure all events are happening like they're supposed to. If I were to step in like that...”

Its eyes turn from a white to a bright orange, and it's mouth moves quickly, as if speaking to itself. Stiles and Deaton share an uneasy look and shuffle a few steps away from the circle.

Finally, its eyes return to their normal color, and it smiles brightly at Stiles as it laughs, “Oh my, I've been naughty, haven't I, dear?” It giggles, and then raises a hand, “Lift your shirt. Let me see the damage I caused.”

He doesn't want to, especially with the predatory gaze the timekeep is sending him, but at Deaton's encouragement he pulls at the edge of his shirt and lifts it over his head. He lifts up his arm and gestures to the wound on his protection ward, still healing despite it being weeks since the accident.

If anything, the timekeep laughs harder, “Oh my, oh my! How fascinating. We've created a mess here, haven't we boys?”

Stiles feels an anger coil in his stomach, “You mean you created a mess here. I've done nothing!”

It throws its head back and a laugh rolls from its throat again. Stiles is getting so tired of this thing laughing, “Exactly! You've done nothing, boy! I don't know what happened exactly to cause these events, but I've obviously sent you back here to do _something_. Look at you,” Its eyes shift to a bright gold this time, and it stares intently at Stiles' face. Stiles fights the urge to fidget from the look, “So desperate to get back to a future we've already destroyed. It's almost blank, from this point on, you know? A white slate!” It giggles inanely, “I've never seen anything like this before!”

Stiles' stomach lurches, “What, you mean, there's nothing?”

It shakes it's head, “No, time doesn't work that way. You, my boy, have created about five hundred alternate universes. Did you know that? Twenty are just from waking up this morning. Oh my, it's beautiful! There's so many ways this can play out! I've never seen such complete disregard for the rules!”

It stops, suddenly, as if stricken, and then looks at Stiles again. Its eyes shift back to white now, as it says, “Oh my. Oh, oh my. I've done something, horrible. Haven't I?” It's voice is soft now, almost like a child, “That's why I tried to clean up my mess. And then I must have seen you and decided it could be fixed.”

“Why couldn't you just fix it on your own?” Deaton demands, “Why involve Stiles at all?”

It waves its hand in annoyance, “Old laws, old family rules, you understand, of course, the balance of the universe and all that. I can't pass my own time line. Whatever happened I must have had a bigger part in it than I thought at first. Oh my, boys, this just gets more twisted as time goes on!”

“I can fix it though, right?” Stiles asks, frantic now, “That's what you said. You said you sent me back so I could fix it.”

“It's possible, but the time line will still be a mess in the _worst_ way,” It says, like an erotic moan slipping from it's throat, “Goodness me, what must I have been thinking?” Its eyes turn orange again, and then back to white. “There are several time points in this year that could easily be tampered with. You're close to one of them already.”

“The Hales?” Stiles asks, and then something sharp twist in him, “You mean the Hale fire is supposed to happen?”

It twists its face unpleasantly, “The Hale fire was never supposed to happen. This is a fixed point in time, it shouldn't have been tampered with.” It looks troubled now, hands flexing almost nervously, “Oh, dear, those poor creatures. What did I do?”

The words sink in slowly, in incriminates, until Stiles walks right up to the edge of the circle. His eyes are hard, a new resolve settled in him, and he says, “The Hale fire wasn't supposed to happen. That's what you mean, right?”

“Yes.” It nods.

“And my future is gone. All of my friends, they're not there anymore, right?”

“I can't see them. At least, not in the way they were in your memories.”

Stiles dutifully ignores that last bit and pushes on, “Would you send me back to where I came from if I asked?”

It's face twist again, “I could send you to 2013, but I can promise that it won't be the way you've left it. Whether you meant to or not, you've already interfered with this time. There are already fourteen changes to your original time line! My, my, my, it's all such a beautiful mess!”

Fourteen? Jesus, Stiles thinks. He hasn't even done anything since he's been here! How are there fourteen differences already? He just nods, though, the truth settling something within him. He's strangely at peace with this, now. He has his answers, and now all he needs is a plan.

“That's all I needed to hear.” He says, and then, with a wave of his hands, the candles flicker off, the line of the circle is broken, and the timekeep is gone with one, final laugh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translation for what Stiles chants is: "We call upon you / You, the spirit of power / Although we do not know the name of, nor the kind / And ask you to mercifully hear us, to hear this"
> 
> (also I completely made up the timekeep how wicked awesome is that guys DO YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS REALLY NO MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE THAT CONTROLS TIME IT'S FUCKING BULLSHIT I HAD TO MAKE UP ALL OF THIS FUCKING LORE AND NO ONE GETS TO HEAR IT IT'S JUST ME MAKING THIS SHIT UP FOR MYSELF anyway if you're having trouble picture him just get a vague idea for what Father from KND looked like and change a few details it's a full proof plan I swear)


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an indecisive little shit apparently and I went back to chapter 6 and fixed where Stiles' mom comes from. The answer is Poland because jumped on the headcanon that Stiles' dad met Claudia while he was visiting relatives in Poland and idk it worked so oops sorry. The translations are at the bottom or if you're feeling too eager there's always google translate, in which I owe a many thanks to. I also really get tired of seeing Genim in so many fics, not saying it's bad just that it's cool to see some different things I guess?, so Stiles' real name is Szczęsny and THANK YOU SO MUCH TO Weronika and Ann-i-ka for helping me with the translations!!! 
> 
> I'm also super sorry about the late update. School started and my brother moved up here and so I had to help him settle in and wow. S c h o o l.

It's not even seven hours later that Stiles finds himself standing just outside of the hospital, watching people shuffle in through the sliding glass doors and biting at the nail of his thumb.

He doesn't even know how he ended up here. Everything after summoning the timekeep feels like a static blur. Deaton wanted him to rest today, watch a movie or sleep some more, said that when he got home tonight they'd work on whatever half baked plan Stiles had sputtered out in gasps of excited air.

So of course he's doing the exact opposite, right?

And it's not like the bench he's sitting on is exactly comfortable, because it's not. It digs into his ass and he's shifted positions three times now, but anytime he gets more than a foot closer to the entrance he feels like he's going to vomit again.

After Deaton revealed his mom to be a spark too, Stiles had been half ready to go running off to the hospital to see her. The man had infuriatingly decided to not tell Stiles much more than 'she's just a spark, Stiles, go back to focusing on your work' whenever he tried to broach the subject again.

He doesn't even know why he's here. He should be out doing something, right? Setting some big, complex plan into motion to save the day? He's not even sure he has one anymore, though, which blows because he's always the one with the plan. Or, he's supposed to be.

He's been running the scenarios through his head all day and he still can't tell which would be the best course of action. Would telling the Hales about what's wrong set it all to rights? Does he have to find whatever loophole happened to make the set time suddenly change?

He glares at the ground as he recalls the timekeeps laughter, making mocking faces into the dirt. It definitely could've been more helpful, at least.

Someone behind him clears their throat pointedly, sending Stiles into a flailed roll off of the bench. Behind him, there's a short, old looking woman with a kind smile on her face.

“You should go in,” She says, gesturing to the doors. At Stiles' disgruntled face she adds, “I know it's a scary place in there, but I'm sure whomever they are needs you more than you need your space. I bet you a dollar they're more terrified than you are, and I can guarantee you that they'll feel better surrounded by people they love.”

Stiles desperately wants to argue with her, really, he does, but the look she gives him just makes him nod resolutely and stand, brushing imaginary dirt off of his jeans.

The woman watches him as he walks across the small stretch of parking lot and keeps on until the sliding doors slide shut behind him like a prison cell latching closed. Once he's inside, it's easy to navigate the way to her room. He could do it blindfolded. (Which he actually has before because he got this really weird paranoia of becoming blind when he was eleven. It was a weird time. Scott was nothing but an enabler because he liked to watch Stiles run into walls.)

It isn't until he's outside of her hospital room, door currently closed because an old guy with dementia walks the corridors after lunch and thinks that she's the long lost love of his life, that it really hits him.

His mom is behind that door. His mom who hasn't seen in six years, who he visits at her grave, her fucking _grave_ , every weekend and after every lacrosse game. His mom who used to make caramel apples with him in the kitchen and has two boxes full of coloring books, pages splattered with perfect colorings, who made flashcards with him of police codes so they could fall asleep on his dad's late shifts, listening to the reports of robberies and the loud house parties and his fathers voice telling dispatch that he'd be there.

Stiles pulls his hand back from the door and just stares at the handle blankly.

If he does this, he can't go back. He'll never be able to pretend that she isn't here, that she isn't behind this door breathing. He won't be able to pretend she's dead, that she isn't already dying. And what happens when she does die in thirty-two days? What will he do when that hole he keeps closed inside of him is torn open again?

The choice is made for him, though, when the door is quickly pulled open and a woman is shouting, “Ty bachorze! What have I told you about walking here when your father-”

She cuts herself off, mouth instantly snapping into a tight line. Stiles forgot how she looked in the last few months, always choosing to remember her with billowing hair down to her waist, face full with a healthy glow, that it's almost like a slap to see her so pale and fragile looking.

She doesn't look fragile though, hands instantly dropping to cross in front of her chest, a white shirt with two little blue hand prints stamped on it that he recognizes. They made it when he was in kindergarten, and he knows there's a really bad drawing of a teddy bear holding a balloon that he did when she was talking to another mom. Her face had brightened when she saw it though, instantly leaning over to press kisses to his cheeks.

She looks more like she's ready to bend him over and spank him than kiss him, though. Her eyes widen as she takes him in, and then her face instantly sours into a glare. She opens the door more and whispers harshly, “Szczęsny Stilinski get your ass in here right now młody człowieku.”

Stiles feels his throat tighten, and he promised himself he wouldn't cry, not anymore, but he's dangerously close to it right now. No one but his mom and his grandma had ever been able to pronounce his name right. He never thought he would miss the tongue twister, so ready to change his name to Stiles rather than force people to butcher his name, but the sound of it makes his mom need to tug him into her room with her bony fingers to snap him out of his reverie.

For lack of anything better to say, Stiles rubs at the skin of his wrist she pinched and grumbles, “I seriously don't understand how you slip between Polish and English like that. You know I tried to take a Polish class at the community college in ninth grade and I had to drop out because it was so confusing?”

“You think Polish is confusing?” His mother slams the door shut, raising an eyebrow that looks exactly like his, “Try learning English. I still don't think your father was worth the headache, that damn beznadziejny człowiek.”

And Stiles instantly grins because it's his mom and he's heard her complain about traveling all the way from Poland to be with his “idiot, American father” too many times to count. At his smile, Claudia's face instantly softens and she's sweeping him into her arms before he can even blink.

He's taller than her now, only by a few inches, but it's enough to tuck her head under his chin. His hands grip her tight, hugging her like he always wanted to when she was in the hospital and he thought she was too fragile. She squeezes him back just as hard.

After a few minutes, she pulls away and walks back over to her bed, untying the bandana around her head as she goes. She pulls it off and he's met with her bald head. It's a familiar sight.

“I'm glad to see you outgrew that buzz cut phase,” She says as she carefully folds up her bandana. “You're a beautiful boy but your head is shaped weird and you really weren't doing yourself any favors.”

Stiles blushes and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't have any styling gel at Deaton's and it just stands on end in which ever direction it chooses.

“Excuse you,” Stiles squawks, easily finding the chair next to her bed his dad has already broken in with his butt, “But I'll have you know we have exactly the same shaped head, mom.”

He tries to ignore how good it feels to call someone _mom_ again.

She grins at him, her chapped lips pulling easily into a smile he had forgotten about years ago. It hits him like a freight train. “Mine works with my girlish figure, kochanie. With you, it looks like a cracked egg.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Oh no, kochanie, that's what the drugs are for.”

They share an easy smile. Stiles has never felt so bright, so happy. He can't recall a time where everything felt this right, just sitting here with his mom, her presence alone seeming to make everything better in his life.

So of course he has to ruin his delusion. Out of the corner of his eye he can see it, glowing faintly under the coat hook on the door. It's simple, probably the first ward he learned. It's one that detects auras and bathes the room in the light of the person if they touch the ward. Only the maker of the ward can see it, making it easily hidden. It's why she so readily accepted his presence, Stiles realizes, despite not being the small twelve year old he's supposed to be.

Claudia's watching him, amusement sparkling in her eyes,“Has my little Szczęsny been learning the ways of the iskra?”

Stiles looks back at her, frowning, “Iskra?”

Her smile instantly drops and her eyes widen a small bit. It's almost unnoticeable, but Stiles sees her hands tighten briefly. She instantly wipes away that look, smiling smaller now with something akin to acceptance and settles herself onto her bed, “Ah. I guess that answers that, then.”

Stiles opens his mouth, head almost pounding with the suffocating feeling that he's said something wrong, but she quickly cuts him off, “So, tell me now, did you make a deal with a timekeep just to visit your mama? I hope you gave them something good, sweet one. Sending someone back in time is no small feat.”

“You know about timekeeps?” Stiles asks, a frown settling over his face.

“Your dziadek called them woźny czasu,” She says, “But yes, I know of them. Our family has a great rapport with them. My braciszek even had his life saved by one, so he says, but I don't really believe him. Your pradziadek is the special case. He actually fell in love with one, did you know? Almost proposed to it, too.”

Stiles makes a face, trying to imagine getting to know the creature he met last night. He shivers slightly, remembering the double twinged voice and its ever changing eyes and its cold laugh that raked against his ear drums even after he vanished it.

“You never told me that story,” He says, instead of the offensive outcry of 'why' burning on his tongue.

His mom shakes her head, “No, I suppose I didn't. I didn't think I would ever tell you. I didn't want you to know, kochanie. The power of an isk- spark is hard to control, and the duties that come with it are more a burden than a gift. I wanted you to have a life outside of such things.”

Stiles eyes her, remembering his confusion at Deaton calling him a spark, remembering the embarrassment he felt when he learned that his training should have been started when he was ten, and says, “That wasn't really fair to me though."

“When you're a parent someday, you'll understand,” Claudia nods sagely, a sad smile on her face.

Stiles chuckles bitterly, “If I even live that long.”

She frowns, eyes roaming over his face in a nonstop motion, searching for anything that could have led to her bright eyed boy sounding so forlorn, “Come, Szczęsny, tell your mama what troubles you so.”

And he tells her. He tells her everything, not even stopping to take a breath. He tells her everything he didn't tell the Hales, everything that's been piling on his chest until he feels like his ribs are going to collapse. And once he starts, he can't stop, and then he's telling her about his dads drinking after she died, about his panic attacks and the way they can't even talk about her without one of them breaking down. Every single thing he's kept hidden, from his dad, from Scott, from the pack, from the Hales and Deaton, from himself, it all pours out of him like a broken dam and he can't even filter out anything.

By the end of the story, his cheeks are flushed and he's been there for over and hour and his mom has tear tracks on her face.

Wordlessly, she scoots over on her bed and pulls back the cover.

Hospital beds have never been his thing. The mattress is like paper and the cover they have over it crinkles anytime you breathe. The blankets are too thin and itch and the pillows need to be fluffed every two minutes for any sort of support or comfort. But laying there, letting his mom run her hands through his hair and holding him to her, Stiles has never been more comfortable in his life.

Stiles must fall asleep because the next thing he knows he's being shaken awake.

“Szczęsny,” His mom says once he opens his eyes, “Stiles, you have to get up. Your dad should be coming soon and I don't think either of us is ready to tell him why there's a teenager in my bed.” Stiles groans and tries to hide his face under her pillow but she snatches it away from his face, “Do you ever change? Come on. Wstawaj, my little boy, or else I'll pinch you. I know where it hurts, too.”

Stiles knows quite well that she knows where it hurts to pinch him and quickly scrambles off of the bed at the threat, landing with a groan in a pile of limbs on the tile floor. Claudia asks if he's okay, but he can hear her stifling her laughter so he doesn't take her concern to heart.

Her face appears over the side of the bed and he gives her a dirty look, making her laugh some more.

“You're like a cat!” She laughs, arm wrapped around her stomach, “Oh, kochanie, you really need to talk to yourself. The poor boy is too afraid to even look at me wrong, let alone glare at me.”

Stiles instantly feels every happy feeling leave him like a balloon floating away. He remembers what he was like the months before his mom died, quiet and scared, too afraid to even touch her. He remembered that he gave her headaches, back when her diagnosis was new and they didn't have her on medication, and he tried to sit in the corner and not speak. He didn't know his mom cared then, didn't know he wasn't helping her.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, getting up from the floor, “I'll be sure to pencil him in between saving millions of lives.”

“Don't let your ego get too big. It's more like hundreds.”

Stiles just gives her a look.

Claudia throws her hands in front of her, “Okay. Fine. You're going to save millions of lives. You're a modern day Baseballman.”

Stiles lets out an exasperated breath and narrows his eyes at her, “Batman. Mother. I am Batman. We have been over this-”

She winks mischievously at him, “Whatever you say, Bluejay.”

“It's _Robin_!”

“Whatever.”

The small groan of frustration is down right loving, and without his own permission, he sighs, “I've really missed you.”

It seems to sober her up and her face falls for a few seconds. She nods, sitting upright in her bed and playing with the skin around her thumb. It's a nervous habit he picked up from her.

After a minute she seems to nod to herself, face settling into some kind of resolve that looks almost wrong on her and she says, “Guestroom closet. On the top shelf there's a box, and behind that box there's another one. There should be some books your babcia left with me. You'll have to ignore the poetry, your pradziadek was a hopeless romantic. Get the books, and maybe your job will be easier.”

Stiles makes a face, “Are they all in Polish?”

Claudia smiles, it's small and barely there but Stiles doesn't know what else to call it, “Good thing you took that community college class, right?”

“Dropped out,” Stiles clarifies. “Dropped out.”

She waves a hand, “It doesn't matter. You're a smart boy. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Now, come here and let me kiss that face because you have about five minutes before your papa gets here and I am so not letting him think his wife is having an affair with some young thing.”

“Oh, but it's perfectly fine if he thinks you're having an affair with an old thing?”

His mom smirks, “Shut up and come here.”

Stiles does as she says, and he hates every minute of his walk to the door. The door closes behind him with a click that feels too loud, and the sliding glass doors open too quickly.

He passes a small boy with a buzz cut and moles. He doesn't stop to say anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Once again, thank you Weronika and Ann-i-ka for being an amazing person~  
> Ty bachorze– You brat  
> młody człowieku – young man  
> beznadziejny człowiek - hopeless man  
> kochanie – sweetie, sweet one, sweetling, etc.  
> iskra - spark  
> dziadek - grandfather  
> woźny czasu – time caretaker  
> braciszek - brother  
> pradziadek – great grandfather  
> babcia - grandmother  
> Wstawaj – get up
> 
> (also, i'm thinking of writing another time travel fic and i'm not even done with this one so someone just like slap me okay siiiigh)


	10. Chapter 9

Stiles knows his mom is an evil genius, but the timing works out way too well.

Or maybe the Hales really have been trailing him. Stiles won't pretend to understand.

Derek is sitting on the same bench Stiles was only a few hours ago, thumbs moving rapidly over the scrunched keypad of his flip phone. Stiles is sympathetic to those thumbs, recalling when he became a latchkey kid who had the mature responsibility of walking all the way home from school and thus needing a cellphone for emergencies. The only emergency that ever erupted was the time it went off in class because his dad accidentally butt dialed him and when Jackson decided it would be fun to throw it off of the tallest slide on the playground.

But, that's a story for another day. And different company, because Stiles has somehow sat down right next to Derek without him even blinking. It's like he's in another world, hitting key after key to compose a- Stiles peeks over his shoulder, instantly regretting being nosy because he definitely didn't need to see Derek Hale sexting with Kate Argent.

Stiles gulps down whatever bile had been climbing its way up his throat and places a hand on Derek's shoulder.

He practically jumps at the touch, phone snapping shut almost guiltily, Stiles fights the urge to tell him it was too late and that, yes, he had read exactly what Derek wanted to do to Crazy Kate's nipples. Nah, he much prefers to ignore the glare Derek is sending him and raises an eyebrow, “Dude, are you okay? Last time I tried to sneak up on you, you showed up behind me and knocked me to the ground.”

Derek's nose twitches, which Stiles finds adorable because his Derek had managed to perfect the neutral bitch face and his nose would never think to do such a vile thing as twitching, and he squints his eyes. “I sound like a douche bag.”

Stiles pats his shoulder sympathetically, belatedly realizing he hadn't moved it in the first place, “That you are. But I once saw you holding a door open for an old lady and then proceed to carry all of her groceries into her house and help her put them away though. So.”

Derek doesn't look impressed by his future self helping old ladies. Stiles is offended on future Derek's behalf.

“You looked really annoyed the entire time though,” Stiles assures. “You should have seen your face when she asked you to mix cookie dough for her because her blender broke. It was like you thought the chocolate chips were gonna eat _you_.”

And _there's_ the bitch face. Stiles was starting to think this kid was an alien or something. A happy alien, sure, but an alien none the less.

“Just how close are we in the future?” Derek asks suddenly.

Stiles shrugs, finally moving his hand from Derek's shoulder and looking at the expanse of the hospital. He can still remember making pancakes and eggs and forcing Derek out of bed on each of his fallen family members birthdays, remembers Derek doing the same for him when his own mom's birthday came around. They had lots of talks about family, trading morose stories and letting out bitter, broken laughs at each one. Derek told him almost everything, because once Stiles earned that trust from Derek, he never betrayed it.

It wasn't all secret sharing and happy fun times, though, and Stiles can still see that closed off expression anytime he tried to bring up Paige, the way his hands would twitch into claws whenever he brought up his doubts about Peter, how he still cringed away from the name Argent and hesitated with Chris' firm handshakes. Stiles got past the first layer, sure; farther than Scott or Isaac or anyone else had, but Derek refused to let him closer, refused to let anyone closer.

When someone has been bitten enough times, it's not surprising that they'd shy away from a dog.

But Stiles doesn't say that. This Derek is too young, too undamaged by life and its sick plans for him. So Stiles just shrugs and simply says, “As close as you'd let yourself be to someone, I think.”

Derek looks like he wants to reply but then his phone vibrates. Stiles always thought Peter was lying when he said Derek was like Scott, never thought the creepy uncle could possibly be telling the truth, but the way Derek's eyes light up when he reads whatever Kate sent, Stiles is _so_ not making that mistake again, thank you, makes him think that maybe he never gave Peter enough credit.

Then he remembers that Laura said that Peter wants to torture information out of him and quickly retracts that thought.

And that reminds Stiles.

“Hey,” He knocks his shoulder into Derek's, “How's your mom?” Derek doesn't respond, still typing away. Stiles rolls his eyes and juts his chin in the direction of the hospital, smirking, “Mine's dying, if you're curious.”

His fingers still, expression dropping, and Stiles doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. He's not above shaming Derek away from Kate, he tells himself. It's just a means to an end, he quietly assures. It's not like his throat feels tight at the mention of his mom dying _again._ It's not like it hurts him to know that, even if he saves Derek's family, his will still be broken. Stiles has always been a big fan of avoidance.

“So is mine, if what Laura says is true,” Derek bites out, eyes flashing blue before fading slowly, so slow that Stiles knows it's on purpose, back to hazel.

If he looks a bit put out at Stiles not being shocked or afraid of his super-scary-and-obviously-intimidating eyes, Stiles doesn't mention it.

“Like you're so worried about it,” Stiles snorts, shrugging lightly, “Laura tells me you're almost never home anymore.”

“Laura hasn't even talked to you in weeks,” Derek shoots back, looking away and down to his screen again. Stiles quickly shoves off how much that reminder hurt. He wants to say it's only been two weeks, but it sounds pathetic even to him so he stays quiet. “And dad says you've already made your choice not to do anything. What's the point anymore?”

Stiles blanks at the mention of Rand, and suddenly he's overcome by the feeling of being pressed into a wall, Rand's face in his, shouting at him and blaming him for something he didn't even _do_.

“ _Exactly_!” He remembers the timekeep hissing at him, “ _You've done nothing_!”

Stiles hates everything, he decides.

He shakes his head, trying to clear out the memories of last night that seem to want to suffocate him, and looks at Derek.

“If you're done being an angsty teenager...?” Stiles smirks as Derek just glares at him, and he wonders if Derek thinks he's above angsty teenagery things because he's dating an older woman. The thought makes him sick. Knowing that his Derek wouldn't hesitate to punch him in the face for making that comment only makes him more sick. “I actually need to talk to Talia. Call a pack meeting. Sound the alarms. Howl to the moon and all that.”

Stiles was one of the few pack members to actually like pack meetings. He loved the excuse to hang out with all of them, even if they usually had to talk about whatever life threatening, power hungry asshole they had to deal with. Mostly because it resolved into a royal bitch fest of complaining that ended up with them watching some crap television and ordering ten boxes of pizza.

Derek's debit card had truly been a treasure. Since Stiles has been borrowing Deaton's clothes since he got here, Stiles really doesn't think he appreciated the pack funds as much as he could have in his time.

He really doubts the Hales pack meetings will be anything like that, though. Talia seems to have more of a hold on her betas. Not that Derek was a bad alpha, once he got over a few of his issues upon issues, just that he thinks being the mom _and_ the alpha gave her words more weight.

The fact that he didn't have Hales bothering him about the state of the future for the past three weeks is more than proof of that. Scott would have broken down within three hours. Erica probably would have knifed the bastard as soon as they admitted to having knowledge of futurey death things.

Stiles ignores the dull ache in chest. He has to remind himself that they're gone, that he's mourning the loss of people who don't even exist anymore. The timekeep told him that 2013 isn't anything like he left it, even said it was changing with every decision Stiles made. Like that wasn't a lot of pressure, or anything.

Derek doesn't look ready to sound any alarms, much less howl to the moon. Stiles is disappointed and he decides that he doesn't like this Derek at all. This Derek is an asshole, no matter how innocent and happy he looks. He wonders if it's just Kate's influence on him making him act like this, or if Derek is always just this much of a teenager. This Derek is really lame and apparently self absorbed and Stiles kinda just wants to kick him off of the bench.

He doesn't, though, because that would be undignified of a time traveler of his stature. Instead, he sniffs, resolving to get Deaton to set up a meeting with Talia or something, since that's his _job_ , and nudges Derek with his shoulder again, “What are you doing here anyways? Is Laura around? Did she send you to stalk me while she humps her boyfriend?”

Derek snorts, “No, she kinda gave up on you,” Stiles flinches back like Derek just stabbed him in the heart with a claw. Derek doesn't look guilty at all about the reaction, that bastard, “I'm actually waiting on someone and _not_ being creepy.”

Stiles is very proud of himself for not breaking down in hysterical laughter. He deserves a medal, he decides, a big shiny one that says “Worlds Best Time Traveler”. Honestly. Look at the shit he has to put up with. 

“You say that like I'll actually believe it,” Stiles says. Derek rolls his eyes like he would rather saw off his own arm than be here. Oh, does Stiles have a story for him. “Whatever. Is it someone I know?”

“Well you seem to know everything about me so, probably.”

“You make it sound so stalkery,” Stiles narrows his eyes, “Sorry, buddy, I'm just a simple man forced through time to fix everything wrong in the world.”

Derek looks up quickly, almost knocking his head into Stiles', “Wait, what? I thought you weren't going to do anything?”

“I had a sudden... revelation of sorts.”

Derek doesn't look at all convinced, but he hasn't gone back to texting so Stiles considers it a win. “A revelation.”

“A revelation.” Stiles confirms. “One that I'll be more than happy to share with you at this pack meeting that you still haven't called for _some_ reason.”

Derek looks between his phone, the door of the hospital, and Stiles' face. Sties doesn't really like how expressive this Derek is. Well, of course he likes it, it's cool to not have to become fluent in eyebrows, but it's just _so_ different. Those bushy brows have hardly had an action. Stiles can't tell if he's disappointed or not.

He types out a quick message on his phone, sighing like the world is out to get him. Stiles doesn't bother a sympathetic pat. His Derek would take a lot of pleasure in beating the crap out of this one, Stiles decides. He can't hold off his curiosity and is happy to see that it isn't a sext, but some crappy explanation about having to leave suddenly. Seriously. 'I left the shower on- gtg'. So unimpressive.

When he sees Kate's name in the top corner of the screen, well, Stiles is less happy.

His back goes straight, head on a swivel to look for hide or hair of that she-devil. Why is she at the hospital? Why is Derek waiting for her at the hospital? His heart pounds quickly, causing Derek to look at the general area of his chest intensely with confusion.

“We gotta go,” Stiles says distractedly, still watching the doors with laser like focus, “Come on.”

Derek follows him up and leads him back to his car, the same one Laura was driving the day Stiles showed up in the past. It feels wrong to see Derek drive something that isn't the Camero, to see him in some hand me down car that probably can't get over eighty.

Stiles doesn't comment though, still looking for Kate. He doesn't know what he'll do if he sees her. Stiles always hated Kate, was always happy that Peter slit her throat, until Derek told him exactly what his relationship with Kate was. Her death was too quick, he decided. Peter agreed with him. Stiles used to have to leave the room anytime she was brought up, so furious that he couldn't control his magic and short circuited the TV and half the lights in the house.

He bought Derek a new TV, but no one brought up Kate around him again.

“We need to make a stop at my house,” Stiles says as he bites away all of his warnings of staying away from Kate. He needs to make a plan. He needs to talk to Talia. He needs to know what the fuck he's doing but he has no clue.

Derek starts the car and backs out of the parking lot, “Deaton's is twenty minutes away from my house. Can't you just go there after?”

“No, I mean my house house. The Stilinski house. It's like five minutes away, okay? It won't take long.”

“Am I helping you break into the Deputy's house, Stiles?”

“Depends on how you define breaking in,” Stiles shrugs, because he knows where his dad keeps the spare key and he knows the kitchen window is always unlocked and he knows that the garage door opens if you jimmy the handle a few times.

Is it breaking in if it's your own house? Stiles decides it's not.

“Besides,” Stiles soothes, because Derek looks ready to call off the whole endeavor and go sit and wait for Kate again, “He's visiting my mom. He won't be home for hours.” Derek still doesn't look convinced, so he adds, “Just trust me, okay?”

And feels like he's just been hit upside the head with a wrench when Derek still looks unsure.

Derek opens his mouth to speak but Stiles doesn't give him the chance, can't hear Derek's voice tell him that he doesn't trust him. He reaches over and clicks on the turn signal and then presses down on Derek's leg- hard. The car lurches forward, making him unsteady and he hits his head on the window.

Derek growls at him over Stiles' groan of pain, like he would have at Isaac for saying something stupid during a pack meeting, but Stiles only rolls his eyes.

Thankfully, Derek doesn't kick him out of the car and tell him to go die in a ditch and dutifully drives to Stiles' house.

It doesn't look any different. Like, at all actually. It's painstakingly the same. If Derek wasn't sitting next to him, all baby faced and annoyed, then Stiles wouldn't even know he was six years in the past.

He tells Derek to wait in the car, because he should only be like two minutes, and Derek just takes out his phone. Again. Stiles wonders if he'll murder him if he throws his phone away. Maybe he can get away with deleting Kate's number. It's something to think about, certainly.

He doesn't feel like shimmying through the window, so he gets the key out from the fake slat above the door. It slides in easily.

The first thing he notices is that there are dishes in the sink. Dishes. With food still on them. Stiles' fingers itch to clean them. He remembers that it takes him a few months to grow into the hollow roll his mom left when she went to the hospital, that it took him a while before he learned that his dad didn't know how to do laundry and that he never bought in bulk at the grocery store and left the coupons in the morning paper like an idiot.

He does pick up the bowl of cereal and put it atop the steadily growing pile and roll up a bag of opened chips on the coffee table, though. He may also move a pillow and fold the blanket on the end of the couch, remembering how his dad slept downstairs for months after his mom died. He couldn't handle sleeping in his bed alone. Stiles would sometimes crawl downstairs and sleep in the arm chair or on the floor, but when he woke up he would always be back in his bed again.

Stiles leaves the basket of laundry alone though. Little him will have to learn the hard way to not let his dad mix colors and whites. The struggle will give him character.

There's an opened bottle of Jack on the coffee table. The lid is nowhere to be found, but the bottle is almost empty anyway. He remembers his mom's face when he blurted out about his dad's drinking, and something in him flares up. Before he can even think, he's lifting up the bottle and draining it in the sink. He very deliberately puts it back exactly where he found it. He does the same with the four bottles under the sink, carefully screwing the tops back on and putting them back.

This Stiles won't grow up with his dad drowning his sorrows in alcohol. No. This Stiles won't use alcohol to get information out of his dad. Not if Stiles can help it. They'll actually talk about his mom. If he's changing the time line he's doing this right.

He makes a mental note to come back next week and check again and starts heading up stairs, fighting the urge to sort out even more things that current him will be too young to process.

The guestroom is about as boring and plain as it always is. White walls. White bedspread. No personal touches. Stiles' mom wasn't much of a decorator. She hated Ikea with a passion and anytime spent there was considered wasted time.

It's common knowledge in the Stilinski household that if you want to get rid of something but don't want to throw it away, you put it in the guestroom closet. It's a huge walk in that makes Stiles annoyed that it wasn't given to him as his room, since his own closet is a measly sliding door one, but, whatever. The attic is already filled with enough crap, and his pack rat parents really didn't _need_ the extra space. Stiles just considers them all lucky that no one got the bright idea to just turn the guest room into a storage room.

The box is exactly where his mom said it would be. It coughs up dust when Stiles moves it and it reeks of his grandma's perfume. It's taped shut so Stiles can't look through it, which is probably for the best since he'd probably just end up sitting there all day and end up getting caught by the Sheri- Deputy.

Time travel sucks.

On his way out, he steals two of his dad's shirts from the laundry room. They're ones from a marathon and the academy, ones he only uses on laundry day or when he's just running to the convenience store. Stiles steals them in the future anyways and his dad doesn't notice, so he just throws them over his shoulder. He's so tired of wearing Deaton's clothes and he smiles to himself, excited to have something that's so _normal_ for once.

He makes sure to lock the door behind him and puts the key exactly where he found it. He's confident that his dad will blame the moved blankets and dishes and bottles of alcohol on his younger self since he was home alone all day. He also probably won't yell at Stiles for dumping out the Jack.

Oh well. It's not his problem, right?

Derek is exactly where he left him, frowning down at his cellphone. Trouble in paradise? He wonders. What exactly was Kate _doing_ at the hospital? There's nothing evil or villainy at the hospital, right? He shakes his head, thinking that it's irrelevant.

Stiles taps on the drivers side window and Derek bolts upright, phone snapping shut with an audible snap. Stiles thinks it's broken, but Derek doesn't look too concerned with it. He rolls down his window, glaring at him.

“You're an asshole,” Derek seethes.

“It's part of my charm,” Stiles shrugs, opening the back door to put his box and shirts in.“That's like the second time I've snuck up on you dude,” Stiles says, squinting his eyes at Derek, “You okay? Everything alright with the old werewolf powers?”

Derek manages to look annoyed and confused at the same time. It's a great combination, “I'm fine, Stiles. We don't actually use our abilities all the time. We can tone them down. You know that, right?”

Stiles just stares at him, “What are you talking about? It's like a born wolf thing.”

Derek, his Derek, would suddenly jump out of the window if his dad was so much as two streets away. He could tell if they won lacrosse games just by how they smelled the next time he saw them. He could smell when cookies were perfect to take out of the oven, for fucks sake. Why would Derek be that on _all the time_ if he could control it?

But Derek just stares at him like he's speaking nonsense and shakes his head slowly, “We can control it. How do you think we can all live in the same house without dying of embarrassment?”

The answer hits him suddenly. It makes him take a step back with the force of his realization, because he fucking understands and he _knows first hand_. Derek was hyper vigilant. He had PTSD. Which, really, it all makes so much sense. Stiles runs a hand through his hair, pissed off beyond recognition because how could he not have noticed? How had Derek hidden it so well from him? _Why hadn't he ever considered it?_

Stiles is truck by the sudden sense of protectiveness he feels for Derek. He feels like he’s been set afire with his rage, burning form the inside out. He wants to find them. Everyone. Kate, Jennifer, Peter. Everyone who has ever taken or stolen or lied or wronged that man. He can’t even look at Derek’s face without wanting to break into the Argent house and smother Kate with a pillow in her sleep or track down Kali’s pack just to bury Jennifer alive and he wants to tear Peter limb from limb and scatter him across the globe and wrap him in twelve different types of wolfsbane and mountain ash. 

He looks away from Derek’s baby soft, confused face, hating the way his gut clenches as he thinks of Derek sobbing over Cora’s dead body, the way he looked when Scott threw mistletoe on Jennifer, the haunted, distant expression anytime Stiles had to cook meat for dinner in his kitchen. He wants to take it all away, wrap Derek in an assortment of blankets and tie him to a couch and never let him watch anything but happy cartoons and eat ice cream, because the world is nothing but unfair and traumatizing to Derek, and Stiles will do anything he can to make sure that he never has to see him look anything less than ecstatic again.

Even if it means he has to light a few fires of his own, first.

He throws open the side door and gets in, slamming it shut behind him. Derek winces at the sharp slap of metal on metal.

“Drive.” He demands, not looking at Derek.

Derek, seeming to pick up on his fury, quickly puts his phone away and starts the car without comment.


	11. Chapter 10

The Hale house is exactly like the last time Stiles saw it, so wholly and utterly different from the rebuilt one in his time. He glares at the brown rafters and the white columns and wishes back for the house his pack planned over and built with their own hands last summer.

As soon as Derek parks the car, Talia Hale is on the front porch, arms at her sides and eyebrow raised. She has a dishtowel in one hand, but she holds it like a weapon and her stance, while minute, is shifted defensively. She relaxes when she sees Derek and Stiles, surprise and confusion flittering over her features.

“Sorry boys,” She says as the walk to the porch, both sharing 'what the fuck' looks with each other, “I thought I smelled someone I don't particularly like. I must've been mistaken.”

Then she offers them an easy smile, a mother's placating one that they all seem to magically learn after they have kids.

Derek rolls his eyes and kisses her on the cheek, saying something about dinner smelling good. Stiles feels his chest constrict painfully, and it does nothing but firm his resolve.

 _This_ , he thinks, _This is what I'm fighting for_.

“How's the arm?” Stiles asks, nodding at her shoulder. He remembers Rand screaming in his face and tenses his shoulders to not hunch them in shame. Is Rand even home? He hopes not. He's running too high on adrenaline from his mom, from being close to Kate, from his revelation.

Talia waves a hand, “It's fine. I healed as soon as we got out of that ER. It's going to take a few days to shake a doctor, but it's nothing we can't handle. I didn't know you'd be joining us,” Talia calls down from the porch, “Dinner won't be ready for another twenty minutes but we can make room if you're planning on staying.”

“I'm actually here to talk to you, Mrs. Hale.” Stiles fist his hands in his jacket pockets, trying to quell the shaking. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral, still not knowing what to say or how to say it. He should go back to Deaton's. He should translate those books. He should have asked his mom more questions. He should learn more about that timekeep before revealing everything to Talia.

But she nods at him and he knows it's too late to backtrack. He's not dealing with Talia Hale the mom anymore. He's staring right into the red eyes of an alpha, one of the most powerful ones on the West Coast, and she waves a hand at him, silently telling him to follow her into the house.

“Laura,” Talia says, raising her voice only slightly. Laura walks out of the living room and into the foyer, not even sparing Stiles a glance. Her complete lack of acknowledgment burns him more than he anticipated. “I need to talk to Stiles for a few minutes. Do you think you could watch the spaghetti for me? You know how Cora gets if the meatballs are too well done.”

Laura's eyes finally bounce over to Stiles and, before he knows it, he has an armful of Laura Hale. She's clinging to him, face stuffed between the crevice of his ear and shoulder. Her arms are wrapped so tight that Stiles swears he can hear his ribs creak, but he hugs her back as hard as he can.

“I knew you wouldn't do it,” Laura whispers into his shoulder. If his shirt is slightly damp, neither of them say anything about it.

He doesn't respond though, just holds her tighter. He can't stop thinking about how broken she sounded last time he talked to her, how she had just completely given up and hates himself for putting her through that, for putting all of them through that. They had three weeks of sitting around, worrying about their mortality, and Stiles did _nothing_.

He resolutely ignores the laugh track of the timekeep in his mind, shoves it aside and pulls away from Laura. She graces him with one more blinding, bright smile before she's heading off into the kitchen.

Talia brings the phone down from her ear and snaps it shut. Stiles wonders how long Laura and him were hugging that she had enough time to make a phone call. She waves a hand and he takes it as a sign to follow her back to the study.

Stiles never spent too much time in the study back home. It was intended to be the research montage room but Stiles needed to have a TV on in the background if he was reading too much and Lydia preferred to sit on the porch to absorb, so it was mainly used as a storage room and a place for the land line (who even needed a land line in 2013?) and Derek's ancient desktop.

Stiles tried to take Derek to Best Buy one time to get a laptop for him. He'd never seen a salesperson cry so hard in his entire life.

While the walls of the future study are lined with barren shelves, this room is absolutely filled with books. Stiles longs to run his hands across the spines, pick them up and read all of the secrets of the Hale family. Peter had bemoaned the loss of 2/3rds of their library before, but Stiles had never really considered how much of a loss it was.

“This is amazing,” Stiles gasps, eyes roaming over the walls filled to the brim with books.

Talia smirks beside him, “Yes, I suppose it is. This library has been passed down for four generations.”

“And it's an absolute horror to photocopy,” A voice drones from the corner of the room. Stiles turns his head quickly, the hair on his neck standing on end at the too familiar voice, and the sight he's met with his a man in his mid twenties sitting next to a Mac and a printer. He has a pile of books on a desk in front of him, boredly flipping through one in his hands. He looks up, eyes piercing and blue and Stiles feels his throat close up at the sight of them as Peter Hale smirks, “I suppose I should thank you for the warning, though. A month ago we only had a hundred of these saved. Our imminent death was quite a sign to get on with this.”

Stiles and Peter both turn to Talia, and Stiles demands, “What's he doing here?” at the same time Peter asks, “Have you finally decided to torture him?”

Talia's teeth seem to bare at her brother on instinct and she growls, “No one is torturing him, Peter."

Peter just rolls his eyes and closes the book on his lap. Stiles, remembering what Laura said when she was sitting outside of Deaton's apartment, wonders if this is a frequent argument.

“What's he doing here?” Stiles asks again, trying to not look at the young face in the corner. It's weird to think of Peter as anything but an old, zombie werewolf with a gross goatee and a fetish for murder.

“He's my second in command, Stiles. I need him here for strategical reasons.” Talia explains as she walks over to sit next to Peter. “I'm sure the Derek in your time had a second also.”

Stiles doesn't mention that his Derek had trust issues upon trust issues and probably wouldn't have even had a pack if he didn't need the power.

“Besides,” Talia adds with a smirk, “If I don't let him sit in he'd be listening under the window anyway.”

“Just because you're a female dog, sister dear, does not mean you have to act like a bitch.”

Stiles scratches awkwardly at his arm, trying to ignore how wrong it feels to see Peter like this, so domestic and fighting with his _sister_. Anytime he looks at him, all he can see is the red around his mouth while Cora's lifeless body bled out under him.

He closes his eyes and forces the image away. He can't do this if he thinks of Peter like that, can't help if he can't stop remembering the monster Peter is. He can't let himself be controlled by fear, not if he wants to make it through this conversation. It wasn't just the fire that made him insane, Stiles has to remind himself, it just made him worse at hiding it.

When he looks back up, Peter is staring at him intently, his too intelligent eyes looking at him in a way that makes him feel wrong and sick inside.

“I survive,” Peter says suddenly, the wonderment and excitement in his tone shocking Stiles into going stock still, “Don't I?”

Stiles opens his mouth to deny it, to change the topic, to do anything but give away that information that he had been so careful to hide, when the door behind him opens.

Rand is there, sporting a familiar glare, and Stiles feels his chest tighten at the sight of him. Everything Randall said to him last night is still crystal clear in his mind, ricocheting in his ears anytime it gets too quiet.

Talia looks confused at Stiles, whose heart has been running amok since he saw Peter.

“No,” Stiles says adamantly, on edge and close to jumping off, “No. I'm not doing this with him in here.”

It's bad enough that Talia insisted on Peter but he can't tell Derek's story with two people in here who he doesn't trust. It already feels enough like a betrayal. There's no way he can do it if he feels out numbered. And, with a look at Rand, Stiles mentally adds threatened.

Talia looks like she wants to rise from her seat, “Stiles, he's my mate. He has to be here for this kind of conv-”

“No,” He says again, glare not leaving Rand's face.

Rand is just glaring right back, “I'm going to be here-”

“No.” Stiles makes his voice more firm, and he moves closer to the door, “You don't get to treat me like crap and then get to be here while I save your ass.”

“You were going to let my family die!” Rand yells at him.

“I'm eighteen years old!” Stiles suddenly shouts, surprising even him, “I'm just a kid, you asshole! You shoved me against a wall and _screamed in my face_! I had no clue what I was doing, and I still don't! I don't need you here messing with my head.” He lets some of his magic go, just enough that Talia and Peter will be able to smell it on him and know he's serious, “Now get out, or I'm going to.”

“Randall,” Peter calls, smirking softly, “I'm sure you know the preservation of this family is far more important than your ego. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”

“I'll be sure to fill you in later,” Talia says, and her voice is light but her face is set in a frown. Her features are slightly off, like they were caught mid shift and forced to stop. “And you **will** be doing the same with me.”

Rand leaves silently with a distrustful glare. He closes the door behind him and the room practically tingles with the silence left behind.

“I don't know why you don't just turn him,” Peter rolls his eyes, “He's more wild than some omegas I've dealt with.”

Talia snorts delicately, “That's exactly why he doesn't want to be turned, brother dear. Randall as a wolf would be terrifying.”

While they continue with their weird, sibling, snarky bonding, Stiles snatches up a pencil from Peter's desk. When he turns away, it feels like Peter is watching him, but when he peaks over his shoulder he's very much engaged in his debate with Talia.

Above a light switch next to the door, Stiles draws in a ward for silence. His pocket knife is buried in his pocket, burning to be taken out so the ward can be done properly, but he doesn't think the Hales will appreciate him mutilating their wallpaper. Derek certainly didn't when he attempted it when they were discussing the merits of torturing a hunter hostage.

(Stiles and Derek were in firm agreement. Scott and Allison were very much against it. Stiles and Derek unsurprisingly lost. Who even decided to let the moral code power couple in on that meeting anyway?)

When the silence behind him grows noticeable, Stiles says over his shoulder, “It's a silencing ward. It's so no one outside of this room can hear what we say. It should wash off, but it won't last long because of the graphite.”

“The room is soundproof, Stiles,” Talia assures.

Stiles snorts, remembering Isaac's disgusted face whenever Erica and Boyd snuck in there to 'look something up', “You say that like I haven't been in a pack for the past few years.”

Peter huffs, “We were _trying_ to keep that particular trick a secret, Stiles. Now how am I going to know what my sister is hiding from me?”

Talia quickly reaches over and slaps Peter on the arm.

Stiles finishes off the ward and drops the pencil on Peter's desk, sitting across from the Hale matriarch and her beta.

He takes a deep breath and, before he can rethink it, breathes out, “The Hales were locked in the basement on the night of the lunar eclipse and the house was set on fire. An Argent did it-”

“Didn't you say Gerard Argent has been sniffing around?” Peter cuts in, looking at Talia.

Talia nods, face set in stone, “He swore he was just here to talk to his doctor. The man reeked of death so I let him pass and the hunters from last night weren't part of their clan. I made sure.”

“It's- it's not Gerard. Well, it's kind of Gerard? It's his daughter acting on his orders, but he doesn't really do anything to you guys. Right now, anyway.” Stiles clarifies. “She has some accomplices that aren't hunters. I don't think they are, anyway. They just seemed like some sick pyromaniacs she convinced to help her out?”

“Derek and Laura were at a Basketball game and didn't get hurt. Laura became the alpha when you died. Peter dragged himself out through the tunnels and was found by a medic who was taking a piss. He was in a coma for six years and-”

Stiles cuts himself off, not wanting to say it, can't say it, not when he just hugged Laura ten minutes ago, especially not when he remembers the way Peter sounded when he realized he lives, the way he looked like the world was his _oyster._

The silence stretches too long, Stiles trying to think if he should go all the way or just let the future stay buried where it is. Peter doesn't look affected. He just... stares at Stiles, like he's delivering the news of the second coming of Christ.

It troubles Stiles, makes sweat slick his forehead and his heart stutter. He needs to tell Talia, needs to tell her what her brother did to Paige and Laura and Cora and Lydia and, hell, probably tons of other people. But he can't do it with him there. If he plants that seed, if Peter finds out what he can do...

He looks away, looks at Talia who has her chin on her hand, “I just don't understand. Our kind has kept the lunar eclipse a secret for centuries. I've never met a hunter who knows anything about it. How'd she know?”

Stiles sighs, and he's never felt so tired in his life. He mentally pleads to Derek, his Derek, for forgiveness. He can remember their talk about Kate like it was yesterday. They were outside on 4th of July, Stiles cooking hamburgers while the pack set up fireworks to light above the forest, and Stiles said something stupid about how his mom burned her favorite wig once trying to light one of them, because that's what they did, share stories that no one else would understand, and Derek just whispered it to him, quiet and steady like he'd been practicing it for weeks.

Derek didn't stop until he was done, kept talking even when his voice cracked, and Stiles had never hugged someone harder.

He needs to, needs to tell Talia, but his throat feels like it's closing and he can't even choke the words out.

“Derek did come to me a few days ago,” Peter murmurs contemplatively, “It was about mates. At the time, I thought it was about Paige. You know how that boy still blames himself,” He adds, looking over at Talia. Talia nods, like Paige has been a topic they've talked about numerous times. “But his behavior has been off lately, hasn't it?”

It seems to click for both of them at the same time, and Talia's growl is so loud and threatening that Stiles thinks his balls crawl back inside of his body.

“That Argent _bitch_!” Talia roars so loud that Stiles has to cover his ears. “Forget the laws. Forget the Argents. I am going to _tear_ that bitch _apart_!”

Peter's own claws are out, almost reflexively at the anger of his alpha, but he grips her wrist and tugs her down, “Yes, great idea Talia. Send their entire clan after us. You know how they get about their own being shed.”

“She's manipulating my son- your nephew! You've smelled him lately, haven't you?” Talia growls, eyes flashing red then hazel and red again, like she can't keep herself under control. Stiles is very careful to not move. “I'm going to tear her throat out and drop it on that geriatric geezer's doorstep.”

Stiles has never regretted telling someone about Kate Argent before in his life. Talia Hale, the most revered and well respected alpha, is nothing more than a frothing, rabid mom when confronted with this truth. He thinks of his own mom, of how she'd react if she found out one of his teachers was sleeping with him for information on her sparkness, and shudders minutely. God have mercy on their soul.

Stiles wants to record this, to somehow hand it to future Derek and say 'see? I told you she wouldn't blame you, dude'.

“Talia,” Peter's voice is so hard it could cut glass, “You need to control yourself. I know your anchor is family, but you need to reign yourself in before you make matters worse. She obviously already has her claws in Derek. Killing her won't do anything but alienate your son and call a war.”

“So, what?” Talia snarls, “Am I supposed to sit by and let her defile my son and use him for information?”

Her head stills, snaps up and stares directly into Stiles' eyes. They're wide and hazel and so, so, so horrified that Stiles wants to comfort her somehow. “He blames himself, doesn't he?” She asks, and her voice is soft and hard at the same time. Stiles nods, a quick jerk of his head, and she laughs bitterly, “Of course. My poor baby. That's just like him.”

She sighs and drops her head onto her hand, “He always felt so much deeper than his siblings. I can't even begin to imagine how he must be like in the future.”

“He's a lot different,” Stiles confirms, trying to make his voice sound light when all he can hear is Derek howling, long and hollow and filled with grief, the night after Cora died, “Stands in corners and broods a lot. He learned to delegate his stalking to the betas though, so, that was a nice reprieve.”

Peter rest a gentle hand on Talia's shoulder and she relaxes into the touch.

“Deaton and I summoned the thing that sent me here,” Stiles says, trying to get back on track and keep Talia from rushing out and ripping Kate's heart out of her chest, “It said the fire was never supposed to happen.”

“What?” Peter and Talia ask at the same time.

Stiles nods, “Something happened that interfered with it. I guess 2007 is supposed to be a set time or something? It wasn't very clear. My mom gave me some books but they're all in Polish and will probably take me some time to get through but. I don't think we have that much time.”

“The next eclipse is in August,” Talia says, “We have around five weeks to figure this out.”

“I think the solution is pretty obvious,” Peter shrugs, “Since whatever this thing was sent Stiles back in time to fix it, I think Stiles is the one that needs to fix it.”

Talia and Stiles both turn to stare incredulously at Peter.

He sighs, annoyed, “Think about it. We're werewolves and obviously members of Derek's family. If we start hanging around then she'll know we suspect her and will move her plans up. Derek is, well, you saw how he was with Paige, Talia. He sicced Ennis on the poor girl,” Stiles' skin burns in anger to correct him, but he keeps his mouth shut. He'll deal with that later. He'll deal with so much later. Right now he needs to focus on Derek and Kate. “You know what I say about love. If we try to restrict him, he'll just fight harder to see her.”

“If you think for one second I'm going to let my son continue to date a hunter hellbent on murdering his family-”

“I'm not saying that. Just continue to be distracted for a few more weeks,” Peter says lightly, in that persuading tone he always used to convince Derek of some stupid plan that was usually vetoed out, “Stiles. Do you have any clue how to get rid of this Argent without causing total war?”

Stiles bites his lip and shrugs, “My dad's the Sher-Deputy and she was his teacher. If we can get some proof that they're in a relationship then I could get my mom to tell my dad to arrest her.”

Peter nods, “Perfect. See, Talia? Human solutions to human problems.”

Talia snorts inelegantly, “Yes, brother, because being systematically hunted by a family of inbred, insane people is exactly what humans go through.”

“Has Hills Have Eyes come out yet?” Stiles raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

Peter looks like he's trying to hide a smile. Talia just ignores him.

“Right,” Talia stands and squares her shoulders, like a military sergeant preparing for battle, “Stiles, do you really think you can do this?”

Stiles really isn't sure, to be honest. He wants to help, and he knows he can definitely catch Kate for being a crazy pedophile, but he kind of really just wants to put a bullet in Kate's head and be done with it.

“I'm sure,” He says instead of that though, because he's not sure that it would inspire too much confidence.

His heart must stay steady because Talia nods, resolute. The air is calmer now, no longer cackling with tension. Talia seems more relaxed, like she's one hundred percent certain that Stiles will be able to take care of this. God, he hopes he can take care of this.

“I really can't thank you enough for doing this for us, Stiles,” Talia says, and then she's walking around the table to hug him. It's not a very maternal hug, and it's not familiar or comfortable like Laura's was, but it seems to make her feel better so he goes along with it. When she pulls back her face is set in a familiar, neutral expression, one that Derek would use when he was hiding stuff from the pack, “I know you're sacrificing a lot by helping us, and if you ever need anything never be afraid to ask.

“We have a spare room if Deaton's couch ever becomes uncomfortable, and if you need to buy anything just tell Deaton. He has Power of Attorney for the pack account. I need to go have a chat with my husband,” She growls the word, “And make sure Laura didn't burn our food. Feel free to stay for dinner.”

And then she's gone, striding away like she hadn't been two seconds away from losing control a few minutes ago and closes the door behind her.

"So," Stiles says briskly, turning to look at Peter with a raised eyebrow, "Are we still pretending you’re a good guy?"

Peter smirks, small and slow, like he’s sharing a secret, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Stiles.”

Stiles snorts, “Yeah. Of course you don’t. I know your game, Peter, and your ideas are rarely for the benefit of anyone but you. No matter if they actually help, you always have something to gain. Did you forget I come from a place where you were a psychopathic murder monster and turned my best friend into a werewolf?”

And then he freezes, like someone has just thrown him naked in the snow and turns to see Peter, who’s full out grinning now. How could he say that? How did he let that slip? No one was supposed to know that Peter became an alpha. He had been meticulous about sparing that detail ever since his first meeting with the Hales.

"Alpha Peter has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Stiles?" He says, and his eyes flash blue before he’s gone and Stiles is in the study alone, not even breathing.

Fuck.

He doesn't know how long he stands there for, silently freaking out. It could either be a minute or an hour, he wouldn't be able to tell, but he only comes back when Laura tugs sharply on his sleeve.

“You okay?” She asks as he stumbles at the force of her pull.

"You need to watch your mom," Stiles says quickly, not even sparing her a hello or a how are you.

Laura just raises an eyebrow, “You know that she’s an alpha werewolf, right? It’s kinda her job to be pushy and annoying. Trust me.”

"No! No, I mean, you need to make sure she isn’t alone with Peter."

Laura doesn’t even change expressions.

"I may have put an idea in his head that I wasn’t supposed to,” Stiles explains, feeling like he's going to buzz out of his skin.

"Is this a time travel thing?" She finally asks, but she makes it sound like he’s an important spy that just handed her a super secret task that could save the world.

He is so not 007 so he just waves her off, “It might be, yes. Please?”

She stares at him for a few seconds and then nods resolutely. Stiles can’t tell if he’s more thankful for her not asking questions or for her trust. He thinks it’s a combination of both.

"Thank you," He says, and they don’t say anymore.

Derek's in the doorway, scowling at them, and grunts, “Dinner's ready. Mom wants to know if you're staying.”

Stiles shakes his head. He doesn't think he could eat right now, too busy trying to plan and think. God, he hasn't played chess in years. This is the most important game of his life.

“I need to put some wards around the house,” Stiles explains, mentally going through all of the ones he needs. Definitely the fire deterrent ones, “And then I gotta get back to Deaton's and start translating those books.”

“Do you even know whatever language they're in?” Laura asks.

“Not really, but it's not like Google Translate is just for desperate high school students, right?”

Derek and Laura just roll their eyes.

By the end of the night, there's an array of wards around the house that light up just for him like the Northern Lights, and Stiles feels more tense than he has in weeks.  


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for made up emissary bullshit

“I'm proud of you,” Is the first thing Deaton says to him once they get back to the apartment.

Stiles doesn't respond more than a raised eyebrow and a clenched fist. He feels like he needs to scream, blood tingling under the surface of his skin. He's not proud of himself, and he hates himself for it. He's not like Scott, not like Derek or anyone else in the pack.

It's never been an ultimatum with him, never was. He's not the type to make the martyr play, to sacrifice his life for the safety of others; complete strangers who've never spoken to him. He feels sick, thinking about his pack and how he's condemning to some other future entirely.

How Erica will never laugh freely and sashay her hips up and down the school hallway, smirking as boys and girls drop their books or fumble and stare. Boyd will never smile and lean close and laugh freely, will never know what it's like to not sit alone in a room full of people. Isaac, god, poor, precious, Isaac will be littered with bruises and a father with expectations too high for anyone to reach.

And what about everything else? What about him and his friends and their enemies? It's all up in their from this point on. He thought that by telling Talia, by letting things happen as they should, his life would be easier. Stiles thought he wouldn't feel such a ginormous weight on his shoulders anymore, that he could breath easier and know that everything would be okay.

But it's not okay, not now, not with everything so radically different and unsure. Not with how everything is going to change and he doesn't even know if he'll make it out of this, if he'll even be breathing tomorrow. He doesn't know the rules to this game, never even thought to ask the timekeep what would happen to him.

“I'm not,” Stiles mumbles and drops himself onto the couch.

Deaton rest the box of books on the counter, finger trailing along the edge of the opening. Stiles wonders if he wants to dig into them, absorb their knowledge like he has with everything else.

“They're in Polish,” He says.

Deaton nods, “My sister and I assumed they would be. Is there anyway your mother would be able to tell you what they say?”

Stiles shrugs, “She might, but I don't know if I could handle going to see her again. Today's been exhausting enough,” He grabs one of his dad's shirts and quickly changes into it, smiling slightly when the feel of the worn cotton rubs against his skin. It smells like their detergent and he breathes it in, trying to put himself elsewhere where things were just _easier_. “How'd you know I was there, anyway?”

“Talia called me while you were warding. Impressive work, by the way,” Deaton adds, “I couldn't see them, as you know, but I could feel them. I haven't felt that level of protection in years.”

“The preserve is really suspectable to magic. It amplifies every rune drawn in there by, like, thirty percent,” Stiles tells him, mindlessly opening the box and fingering a book. “I think it was has something to do with the nematon. Speaking of which,” He snaps his fingers, instantly being assaulted by yet _another responsibility_. Seriously. Fuck timekeeps. He points a finger at Deaton, his eyes arching unimpressed at the gesture in response, “I need you to help me mix some stuff and not ask any questions about. And then I need you to call some weird little emissary gathering. Everyone you know whose pack knows Talia. That'd be great, thanks.”

“Will the course of history be _so_ altered if you tell me what you're planning to do?”

“Probably not, I just like to annoy you.”

Deaton hums noncommittally and waves Stiles away. He continues browsing through the books, looking more and more frustrated as time goes on. Stiles, apparently having more self preservation than Deaton, chooses instead to heat himself up a microwavable pizza rather than give himself a headache.

As he waits, he drums his fingers along the counter and hedges, “Talia said you have power of attorney over the pack account?”

“Yes, well, it's the norm for emissaries. Usually each separate member of the pack has their own bank account, and they put a portion of their check into the main account. It's shared by all but to take any money out of the funds, it has to be signed off by either Talia, Randall, or myself. It's usually to pay mortgage, buy cars, provide money for school trips,” Deaton looks up at him a strange look on his face, “Things like that. Why?”

He shrugs, “She said I could use it to buy anything I needed and, nothing against you,” He tugs at the collar of his shirt, today's was green, “but I'm kind of tired of looking like I'm on my way to a church all the time.”

“I offered to buy you your own clothes just last week-”

“Yeah, but,” Stiles licks his lips, mouth feeling suddenly dry, “I didn't know I'd be staying long enough to use them then.”

Deaton's gaze is intense now, like he's aiming at him to launch a missile right into his face.

Stiles looks away, playing with the button on his cuff, “I know I'm doing the right thing, it's just- I don't know how to accept that I'll never see them again.”

“You will see them,” Deaton nods, sage-like and soothing as he always is, “Just not as you know them. You'll see them as the people they were supposed to be originally.”

“ _That's not the same,_ ” Stiles grinds out, teeth gritted and shoulders tense. “We don't even know what'll happen to me after I stop the fire from happening,” He goes back to his food, which finished while he was talking. He takes an aggressive bite out of it, letting the molten cheese set fire to the roof of his mouth. He hardly even feels it, too lost in his thoughts. “What if I just stop existing?”

The question rings throughout the room, and the silence that follows it is thick and heavy. Neither man is willing to break it, and both go to bed with it weighing on their hearts.

* * *

Stiles never really knew how much he missed flannel until he had it back on his body.

“Good God,” He moans, rubbing a sleeve against his face.

During the much belated shopping trip, Deaton gets him a prepaid phone. The screen is a weird grayish green with pixelated words and the only way Stiles can think to describe it is bulky and black. It doesn't even flip or take pictures. He may or may not grumble about it the entire time they're at Target, but it has a Tetris demo. (For five whole dollars he can unlock fifty plus bonus levels and save his game! _Super_ fun!) Stiles doesn't think it's a complete failure.

“It's only for emergencies,” Deaton warns him before he pays for it and the clothes (six flannels, a bundle of white undershirts, one black v neck, a few pairs of jeans, and some socks and boxers). Stiles feels like a ten year old being allowed to walk home from school for the first time.

He can't text with it, Stiles doesn't even think he would even attempt to, and it only has 60 minutes. _Super_ great! Everything is just _super_!

Stiles barely contains an eye roll, “It's not even a Nokia. You couldn't even get me a _name brand_ piece of shit phone.”

Deaton doesn't comment, but the girl behind the register smiles slightly, like she's holding back a laugh. Stiles counts it a success.

When they get back to the apartment, Stiles walks in through the door, and then promptly backs out of it.

“Deaton,” He hisses, eyes narrowed into slits. He crosses his arms over his chest and Deaton just stares passively around him, eying the small cluster of people sitting on whatever furniture there is. Which is to say his bed is completely covered in other peoples' butts. Awesome. “Who are they?”

“The other Druids. I called them like you asked of me last night, remember?”

Stiles adamantly ignores the amused glint in Deaton's eyes, “I didn't say today!”

And he pouts, because he just wanted to _relax_ today. He had Talia calling their cell phone provider to see if they could get a transcript of Derek's call log, and he already had been planning to hack into their system to get the logs of his texts, thank you Danny Mahealani for being worn down enough as long as Stiles stopped asking him if he was attractive, which he couldn't do without Talia's account information which he wouldn't get until he had the call transcripts.

Meaning that there wasn't anything immediate to do today, except mixing up that spell, but that wouldn't take more than a few minutes and it's not like he could even use it until the new moon, which is just ridiculous. Didn't anyone tell the maker of it that all supernatural crap was supposed to fall on the full moon? Whatever.

The point is, his day is ruined by responsibilities. He glares at Deaton, who obviously isn't too concerned with his precious day being stolen from him.

“I don't even know what to say to them,” Stiles whines. He wanted to be prepared, dammit. He didn't want a remake of yesterday, of blurting out information he wasn't a hundred percent ready to divulge to Talia and Peter. God, he still had to talk to Talia _about_ Peter. Stiles hates his life.

“You'll be fine,” Deaton tells him, nudging him lightly with a bag of clothes. “You know, if you had just told me what to tell them, this whole mess could have been avoided.”

He points a finger in the vet's face, feeling like he's being _punished_ for fucks sake, and whispers harshly, “No, that wouldn't have worked at all! Because I know you, and you only share information on an 'oops, too late to help anyone!' basis!”

No matter how kind this past Deaton has been to him, Stiles isn't about to start delegating stuff like this to him. He's had first hand experience on just how much Deaton likes to be the man holding all the cards, and he's not about to let him screw up the future just because of his incessant need to know everything and be mysterious.

Deaton doesn't look affected by his speech at all, “Just go tell them what you need to say. It'll be over shortly. You can do this, Stiles. I have full faith in you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs, but does as Deaton says and walks into the room.

Leah and Jocelyn are there, and both smile kindly at him in unison. He waves back.

“I still haven't been able to find anything on your runes,” Jocelyn says apologetically, “From all the resources I've exhausted, it seems that they're completely ordinary.”

“It's alright,” Stiles says, even though it isn't. It's rare, but sometimes he still reaches for an easy access rune to use it, and comes away only feeling empty and lost. He doesn't mention that though, just shrugs and sits on the coffee table, elbows resting on his thighs. “It doesn't affect my ability to ward or use magic, so I can make do.”

The words sound hollow to even him, but no one says anything about it.

Everyone in the picture is there, along with a few other faces. He knows they're all not apart of Deucalion's packs separate packs, since there were only four other alphas in it. He wonders if the twin's pack emissary is here, if he could maybe pull them aside and plead for them to have better treatment maybe?

Once, when he asked Derek about what being an omega in a pack was like, Derek's silent wince was more than enough of a response.

“You already know Jocelyn and Leah,” Deaton says, gesturing to the two woman sitting on the edge of the couch. “This is my sister, Marin, and this is Cassandra, Delia, Rhea, Tristan, Amara, and Julia.”

His eyes stop on Julia, and he just... stares. She looks almost exactly the same as the Darach, the woman who seduced Derek and ritually sacrificed twelve people. The only real difference is the shape of her nose, and her hair is straight to her mid back rather than curled in ringlets around her face.

It hits him all at once, a sudden explosion in his chest. The way she looked at him, amusement written all over her face, before she kissed his father, the only woman to have done so since his mother passed, and jumped with him out of the classroom window. How she kept him, and Scott's mom and Allison's dad, trapped in a root cellar for days. How she became another reason for Derek to lock himself away, just another person who lied to him and used him and made him an accomplice to murder.

Deaton calls his name and Stiles blanches, not realizing until the fizzling and crackling between his fingers surges up and twist around his arms, sparks of electricity zapping up and around his biceps, that he's lost control. The shirt he's wearing smells like smoke, but he can't even think about it, his anger and hurt so out of control.

He wants to bare his teeth at her, like a wolf, wants to grab her and run the current through her body, make her feel every ounce of pain she inflicted plus some. But he doesn't. He reigns himself in, pulls taught on his magic until it's locked away and his skin is just smooth flesh once again.

Julia just raises an eyebrow at him, seeming unimpressed. It just makes him want to hurt her even more.

“Are you going to do that every time we come over, Stiles?” Leah smirks at him. Jocelyn grins too, but hers is friendly instead of snide, as opposed to her sister.

“Sorry,” Stiles lies, finally looking away from Julia. He shucks off his flannel, internally bemoaning the loss of the plaid as soon as he got it, until he's standing in the room in nothing but a white undershirt. “You just looked like someone who wasn't really a good person.”

Tristan eyes the tattoos on his biceps, nodding silently as he takes them in. Stiles can see a few in actual ink run along the ridge of his neck, curling behind his ear and disappearing into his wiry hair.

Deaton, Jocelyn, Marin, and Leah all share a look, silently communicating with twitching eyes and raised eyebrows.

“Stiles specializes in protection magic,” Deaton says to Julia, who is still leaning back against the couch in an ease that makes Stiles want to punch her. He has to try to remind himself that she hasn't done anything yet, that she's a victim of what Duecalion has planned too, but it's really hard when she's sitting a foot from him. “Forgive him for anymore brash gestures.”

“Are you his mentor, Alan?” Tristan asks, smiling when he looks at Stiles, “If not, I would love to take such a powerful spark under my wing.”

“A born spark and a time traveler. If my brother _weren't_ training him, you can bet I would have stolen him already,” Morrell smirks, leaning her head in that way she does, eyes wide and calming in a way that makes Stiles feel like he's back in her office, talking about Matt. Like she's seeing inside of his head and pulling out every secret he keeps. “It's bad form to proposition so publicly, Tristan. I thought you, of all of us, would know that.”

“That girl moved an entire Oak tree from the ground and put it through the chest of a troll!” Tristan defends, “It wasn't my fault for seeing an opportunity and taking it.”

Deaton crosses his arms in front of his chest, “Yes, and you never thought that with a spark so well lit she didn't have an _incredibly_ powerful mentor?”

Jocelyn leans across the table, ignoring the bickering above her head, and whispers to Stiles, “He ended up with a snake tongue and pig tail for a year. You don't steal one's prodigy, it is law.”

“And he's lucky he got away with just that,” Leah snorts, “If someone had tried to steal my Martin from me when he was still learning, I would have took their hand.”

Stiles really doesn't know what to do with that information.

He clears his throat, and the banter above him cuts off, “I only know for sure that I need to talk to emissary of Deucalion, Ennis, and Kali.” Marin, Leah, and Julia all sit up a bit straighter and share a look, “And if any of you have a pack with a pair of twins that can morph into this giant werewolf, you'd probably be great to talk to too.”

Rhea sighs and switches positions on the couch, hooking a leg over Delia's knee. Delia doesn't seem to notice or mind the gesture, “What trouble do those two get into now? I swear, ever since Ronan took pity on them and allowed them into the pack, they've done nothing but be a nuisance.”

“Anyway,” He coughs, and then looks at Marin. Her face is hard, like she already knows what he's going to tell her, and she probably does. Jocelyn did say that Deucalion hadn't allowed anyone else but her in the room since Gerard took his eyesight. She's probably been talking him down from this for months. “When he killed his beta out of defense, Deucalion realized that if an alpha kills a member of their pack, they absorb their power. In my time, he gets Ennis, Kali, and the twins to do this too.”

Julia glares at him, here eyes hard and glowing faintly under her iris, “Kali would never do such a thing! She's a good alpha. She cares for each member of the pack like they're her own children! I've never seen an alpha besides Talia with that much devotion.”

“Right. And I'm sure she isn't in love with a morally ambiguous guy like Ennis, huh?” Stiles raises an eyebrow, eyes jumping from Leah's shocked face to Julia's. He's practically begging for Julia to hit him. He wants to attack her back. It doesn't matter if she's more experienced, Stiles has pure rage flowing through him. Revenge is always stronger than righteous anger, right?

The only one who doesn't look surprised is Morrell, who's wearing a carefully blank mask. Stiles wonders how long she's suspected this, if, when he lets her in his room to rant and rave at her, Deucalion's let his plan slip.

“How do we avoid this?” Rhea asks, although she looks bored rather than interested. Stiles should probably tell her to not underestimate Ethan and Aiden as much as she is, but he doesn't think he will.

“I don't know,” Stiles shrugs. It's not like he can tell them to do what they did, run around uselessly until a Darach shows up and helps take the “alpha of alphas” down on the lunar eclipse. “Aren't you guys supposed to know how to deal with power hungry assholes?”

“Our job within the pack is to keep balance,” Deaton says, “We advise the alpha and they take our opinion into account.”

Stiles makes a face, “That's completely helpful. Great job, guys.”

Morrell throws her hair over a shoulder and crosses her legs, “Don't listen to Alan. Not all of us run things how he does.” Deaton gives her a tired look, like this has been a long standing argument, “I will handle Deucalion. By tomorrow night, he won't be a problem. I'll send my new alpha to meet with Talia to reinstate the treaty before the week is over.”

The other emissaries look at Marin like she's an alien, stunned more by her casual coup against her alpha than the knowledge of the alpha pack. Tristan scoots away from her and brings his arm to his side, no longer leaving it around her shoulders.

Morrell sighs, “Above all, we are supposed to keep the pack safe. That, at the end of the day, is our job. Not to be therapist for our alphas. Not to handle finances. We protect. We watch.” She looks around at each of them, eyes settling on Stiles. Her eyes glow white for a few seconds, and then fade back to brown, “We do.”


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I wrote a little snippet of Stiles and Derek talking in the nasbab universe before Stiles was sent back in time if you guys wanna read it?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/980253)
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO - I'm thinking about changing the summary since I wrote that back when I still thought the antagonist of this story was going to be a demon. Silly, past me. So, if you have any suggestions or thoughts on that then leave it in the comments I guess? idk.

Stiles is really surprised it takes him so long to find his way to the computer.

He hasn't seen a tower attached to a monitor in what feels like years. It whirls when he turns it on and there's a truly obnoxious Windows Vista background that greets him. Stiles doesn't manage to not roll his eyes. It takes a full five minutes to turn on and he has to click out of instant messengers and anti virus software aggressively telling him to update his subscription.

Stiles really isn't surprised to see a Zoo Tycoon icon hover above the start button. He fights the urge to click on it and send Deaton's zoo into debt. He's not a horrible person, after all, but it does make him feel nostalgic for his old Roller Coaster Tycoon game. Maybe he'll have to break in to his old bedroom and steal it. It's certainly a thought.

He clicks on Mozilla Firefox, groaning at the orange figure and mumbling under his breath in a silent prayer for Google to make Chrome soon.

The AT&T website is just as unuserfriendly as it is in his time. He easily logs in with Talia's account information and from there, it's relatively easy to use the skills Danny taught him to bypass their security measures. He sends out a bug, one specified to track down Derek's text, and sits back and relaxes.

He's braiding as he works, intertwining strands of string dipped in diluted fox blood. It's actually less disgusting than it sounds, if anyone can believe that. The charm is supposed to cover his scent and heartbeat, letting him sneak around without being disturbed. Alternatively, his camouflage and deception runes would work better.

But. Well. That's still a moot point.

So he's stuck with the old fashioned way, moving strands and knots into place until it makes a necklace. The first time he made one, it sucked at his magic until he had to sleep for fifteen hours to feel normal. He's better now, though, and thinks he'll only have to take an hour nap to work this off.

It's still not as good as his runes. But. Again. Point, meet moot.

There are also oils he could use at his pulse points, which Lydia always favored since his charms would always “clash with [her] outfits”, but they can be sweated off with the smallest amount of excursion and left him smelling like he just got a happy ending from a masseuse.

Not fun for any party involved.

The timer on the stove goes off at the same time that he knots the necklace finished. He lays it on the keyboard and pops into the kitchen, nose squinting at the smell of over cooked eggs.

He ladles portions of the luck potion into glass vials, corking them carefully.

Stiles has been cooking all morning, mixing ingredients and words into a brew. He's never been the best at potion making, since that was more Lydia's forte and she just had him will his belief into it whenever the directions said so, but there's no Lydia here. Just him. And he can follow a simple set of instructions, right?

If not, then the worst thing that'll happen is that the coven of witches will laugh him out f the store.

Ah, well, he's no stranger to humility.

When he's finished, he dumps the bottles into a bag and turns off the burners, cleans up his mess, and the one Deaton left from breakfast this morning, that pig, and hangs the bag off the back of a chair. He puts his charm in there too, just in case he runs into anyone he wants to avoid when he goes out.

He gets back to the computer and checks his bug, getting unnecessarily angry when he sees it's still fiddling around. Danny would have it done by now, he can't help but think. If Danny were here, they would have nailed Kate like a fly days ago.

Instead, Stiles has been sitting around Deaton's apartment like a worthless pile of sludge. Laura's come by a few times and they watched a Harry Potter movie on ABC family. It was Sorcerer's Stone, but still. Good stuff. He was also pretty shocked to find out that she's a Potterhead, says she's Gryffindor, and actually had the nerve to laugh at him defending Hufflepuff.

Stiles misses the future, where Hufflepuff pride is proud and respected.

He dicks around on Paint for a few minutes, making a Dracula out of circles and coloring it in all purple, before he opens up a new tab and types in facebook almost instinctively.

Except, it doesn't take him to the familiar log in page he could say by heart.

It's-

It's ugly. That's the only way to describe it. It's pixelated with a dark shade of blue and poorly placed squares and a _really_ lame font. There's a picture of Mark Zuckerberg near the sign up button, and who puts a picture of themselves on their own website? It tells him he needs a college email to make an account and-

Stiles thinks he's going to be sick, because if he's in a time where facebook isn't cool looking and popular then that means-

It means-

He hates himself for doing it, but he has to be sure.

He types in myspace.com without even looking, cringing when a fully functioning and familiar log in page pops up.

Stiles is going to drown himself.

His curiosities been piqued now, and he doesn't even think before he does it; Googles “Laura Hale myspace” and hits enter before he even knows he's doing it.

And of course she has one. The profile picture is her, with icing covering her cheeks and mouth. She's smiling, head thrown back in a laugh, and arms hooked around a guy covered in equal amounts of frosting. Stiles thinks he must be Brad, going by how his lips are pressed against her frosting covered cheek.

Her background is black and has some rock band he doesn't know stretched unseemly behind transparent boxes. And there's auto play music.

Stiles has never hit the mute button so fast in his life and immediately reminds himself to make fun of Laura for her poor music taste the next time he sees her.

 “ **hey i'm laura! i'm 18 and just graduated BHHS :) :) :) my family means the world to me and my friends are a close second!**  


**xoxoxo i love going to the beach and nature is my fave. if ur ever going camping, hmu!”**

The world is dead as he knows it.

Her comments are filled with horrible grammar and people saying that they're going to miss her, asking her what college she's going to, and just friends trading clip art and inside jokes. Stiles feels skived out when he hits what seems to be a love letter from Brad and quickly scrolls up.

Her friends list only has ten people, and Stiles gets war flashbacks of people fighting over being in someone's top 5. A shudder rips through him. Oh god, the battles that were waged in cyberspace to be listed in order of importance. Stiles is pretty sure Scott cried when he forgot to move him up to his top 5 once.

Junior High was a horrible time.

While he's bemoaning his childhood warfare, he spots a familiar face in the friendslist.

It's Derek's face. Of course it is, because the world is out to ruin every and all perceptions of Derek Hale that Stiles has.

Just. The mere idea of Derek Hale having a myspace, one that he actively uses, is enough to send Stiles into a fit of hysterics. He wishes his Derek was here so he could point at this and laugh, because holy shit that is beautiful. Derek's expression would be priceless.

Stiles ignores the dull ache in his chest and clicks on the picture of a smiling Derek Hale.

The background is black. That's not surprising to anyone. There isn't even anything written in his about me, or in any of the other boxes meant to outline his personality to strangers. He doesn't even have a top 5, just a blue link with an arrow saying 'Click to See Derek's friends list!'. Stiles does not click to see Derek's friends list.

His last log in was months ago, which Stiles whistles lowly at. It isn't until he scrolls down more, that he realizes why.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of comments. All of them have some variation of apologizing for losing Paige, saying RIP with small, error riddled eulogies with a character limit.

'i kno she made u happy bro

i'm sorry'

Stiles feels uncomfortable, knowing full well that Derek would knock him into a wall and glare at him for looking at this, and scrolls away. There's nothing else interesting on the page, just more comments from people Stiles will never know or care about.

He quickly shuts down the computer and goes to take a shower, needing to get on with the rest of his day.

* * *

There is a shop in Beacon Heights run by a small coven. They've lived there for fifteen years, managing a run down shop to act as a safe house for supernatural.

A warlock had stumbled into Beacon Hills once and put love spells on twelve people, causing absolute chaos.

Of course, when he found out werewolves were after him, he ran away to the coven who readily defended one of their own. When Stiles and Lydia explained the situation to them, how ever, the ideas of what they did to him still makes Stiles twitch uncomfortably.

Today, there's a woman with bleached dreadlocks and thick rimmed glasses laying on the counter, a book levitating above her face. A finger twitches and the page turns, revealing a large picture of a girl tied to a stake. There are tears running down her face, but her mouth is twisted into a feral grin.

“Don't worry,” The girl says, head flopped back to stair at him, upside down, “She gets away. I don't know why they ever thought ropes could hold a witch, but, whatever.”

She sniffs and rolls to her feet, sending the book behind the desk with a flick of her wrist. The last time he was here, an old lady greeted him with a sour expression. She had made some colorful remarks about sparks, somethings that still grate on Stiles' nerves, but had helped never the less. Her movements were calm and rigid, controlled in a way that looked almost unnatural.

The girl in front of him is loose with her magic, smirking at him as she juts her chin and pulls up a ledger.

“I heard the ones that got burned were all sparks,” Stiles tells her, walking deeper into the store. He runs his hands across a pack of raven feathers, letting the soft touch soothe him, “We never get proper credit in history books.”

“At least you don't get bastardized on Samhain.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, already well aware of the witches rights groups that go around trying to ban costumes with ugly green faces and pointed hats. When Lydia was trying to figure out what being a Banshee meant, she had dragged him to a couple of supernatural support groups up North.

There, he learned stuff to help fill the pack Bestiary. He also learned the inherent difference between sparks and witches, how all witches are _born_ magic, and all sparks have the _opportunity_ to become it. Sparks are a dying breed, since the gene is only passed on if their magic settles before they have children.

Witches have natural affinities and powers that they build upon, but most can't do rituals or spells to save their lives. The voo doo magic is mainly left to the sparks, who can mix together aconite and salt without getting third degree burns. Sparks are also limited to runes and wards, which is why most are covered in tattoos like he is.

A spark can also pass on their magic to another through a really complicated ritual, which is how most modern day sparks are made. Morrell, Deaton, his mom, her family, and himself are the only sparks he knows for sure who were born with it.

According to Deaton, it's not considered polite to ask.

“I really don't think you get how awesome it would be to be bastardized, dude.”

The girl rolls her eyes, “Says the oh-so privileged spark.” She makes a grabby motion with her hands and then snaps her fingers together.

Stiles feels a tug and suddenly, the white paper he had hastily written on is folded up in her hand.

“Sulphate powder, Calamaris root, Saltpeter, Hyssop herb, Dandelion leaves, and Witches salt,” She reads aloud, face twisted into an unpleasant expression. Her mouth works quickly as she reads the list again, Stiles shifting uneasily from side to side. He had seriously over estimated Deaton's stock and had raided both the closet at the apartment, and the room in the clinic, but neither had everything he needed.

Deaton had just shrugged when he threw empty bottles at his feet, saying that he only did a major restock in December.

The girl eyes him over her glasses, one thin eyebrow quirked at him, “Quite a list you got here. And little me, only a level three, has no idea what you're making.” She steps closer to him, folding the list carefully between her fingers, “Just what are you up to?”

“Leave him alone, Jenna,” A voice says before a figure slinks around the corner. She's tall and dark skinned, hair in a long braid down her back. There are strands of braided string interwoven, with bells and feathers here and there. Her heals click against the linoleum as she walks forward and swipes the list from Jenna's hand, “I put you out here to work, not cause trouble.”

Jenna rolls her eyes, “It was just a simple question. Kendra makes conversation and she doesn't get in trouble.”

“That's because Kendra still manages to get her work done,” The woman hands the list back to her, “Go get the young man what he needs. I'll deal with the exchange.”

Jenna makes an exaggerated huff but takes the list and, with a quick smile at Stiles, disappears between shelves. He can hear her mumbling to herself and bottles moving, but the woman in front of him quickly steals away his attention.

“You belong to Deaton, right?”

“When you put it like that I sound like his slave, but yeah. He's my mentor.” Stiles shrugs and steps closer to the counter. He hooks the messenger bag over his shoulder and onto the counter, the bottles inside clinging against each other lightly at the motion, “What's it gonna cost me?”

He's never made a deal this big before, the last time he was here he only bought some oils and candles for a protection spell. Currency between sparks and witches are trade, mostly. Witches don't normally own stores like this, but the nearest spark owned one is in Washington and he's so not driving there. Deaton would literally kill him for all of the gas.

He doesn't know how much everything will be and brought some bottles of Lady Luck, Solumn Wisdom, Fear Nots, and some Van Van's just in case. Deaton had told him it wouldn't be anywhere near that much, but he lives to be prepared.

It's a really weird, complicated, capitalistic system, but it's worked so far. The witches enchant the items, and the sparks pay them in spells and wards. The two don't mingle often, but there hasn't been any bad blood between the two groups since the witch trials.

The woman grins, teeth too bright and eyes wide, “How about everything in your satchel, including that scent charm, and I even repair your arms for free.”

Stiles blanks, arms tensing at his sides, “My what?”

His voice is little more than a croak, but it gets the point across.

Mysterious lady just grins at him, “Your arms. Your marks have been leached of their magic, correct? Whatever did that must have been starving. You obviously lived to tell the tale, though. Jenna's always up for a good _story_ , aren't you dear?”

A voice mumbles something in return, and Stiles feels like he's left out of some inside joke.

Starving? What did that even mean? Stiles' arms itch at the mention of them and the woman motions for him to remove his flannel. He does so with a skeptical eye, mind still on the whole starving part of her sentence. What? The timekeep seemed perfectly healthy- okay, maybe not mentally but it was fine enough physically, when he called it the other day.

Nails run up his arm, crook around his elbow and trace a gentle pattern against the rubber feeling skin. Her eyes close and her entire body tenses, Stiles' following suit instinctively. It hits him a second later and he almost screams, biting into the skin of his lips and breathing out harshly through his nose.

It's like someone took twenty knives and stabbed them into each inch of skin at the same time. It burns worse than anything he ever felt in his life, even when Deaton carefully chipped away and pealed back his skin to make the scars.

What feels like hours later, the feeling leaves as suddenly as it appears. His skin is pale and clammy, arms and legs jittery and weak. His stomach churns, head pounding, and he feels like he could collapse at any minute.

Despite that, though, Stiles has never felt more alive in his entire life.

Warmth spends throughout his entire arms, running in his veins and leaking into his muscles. It curves around his shoulders and down his sides, following the trail of runes imbedded into his skin. His entire body feels like it's humming, high on whatever the woman did to him.

Someone pushes a glass of water in front of him and he inhales it eagerly.

“It's usually better without the warning,” The woman says with a shrug. She has a paper bag next to her and his satchel has mysteriously disappeared from the table. Jenna's gone, her book missing and the store silent save for the woman smiling kindly at him.

“What did you do to me?” Stiles asks, breathless. He can't tell if he's happy or not, too much pain and warmth inside of him at once. He might pass out from the whiplash sooner than the pain.

“I healed you,” She shrugs, nudging the bag closer to him. Stiles reaches a weak arm over and looks inside of it, finding his flannel folded up atop small bags and bottles of everything he asked for. “Consider it a favor, for all you're sacrificing to keep the supernatural world in balance.”

His head snaps up quickly, eyes wide and mouth open, but there's no one else in the store but him.

The hair on the back of his neck stands, arms exploding in goosebumps as a gentle chill rolls down his spine. Stiles grabs the bag and quickly leaves.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you care (which you probably don't I mean srsly this is boring)
> 
> SULPHUR POWDER is a naturally occurring mineral dust and can be mixed with Salt and then sprinkled or laid down to help clear and clean out an area of negative spell work
> 
> CALAMUS ROOT, also known as SWEET FLAG, is used by those who wish to control a situation or to dominate a specific person.
> 
> HYSSOP HERB is a purification herb for cleansing yourself or your hme, to put an end to crossed conditions, to take off a jinx, or break a hex.
> 
> DANDELION can be drunk as tea or carried in a bag to enhance psychic dreams and second sight.
> 
> BASIL is a sacred herb used for peace and happiness at home.
> 
> SALTPETER is often mixed with two other minerals to make a Sprinkling Powder. One very popular mixture consists of a teaspoon of SALTPETER, a cup of SALT, and a tablespoon of POWDERED BLUEING to help remove negative influences and for Spiritual Cleaning.
> 
> WITCHES’ SALT, also known as Black Salt, is a mixture of Salt and Charcoal, Salt and Iron Pot Scrapings, Salt and Black Pepper, or Salt that has been dyed black and is used to drive away evil, or to make an enemy leave you alone.


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I am so sorry this has taken so long dudes. I just suck a lot. 
> 
> Anyway, here, have some knowledge bombs.

Stiles absolutely does not freak out.

No, he is a calm, and rational human being.

He certainly doesn't spend five minutes flickering the listening rune on his shoulder on and off, wincing as he hears a cat meow down the street and a baby cry for its toy two stores down.

No, Stiles would never run his palm over his arm, almost reverently, tracing the patterns of his runes like they're holy text. He definitely doesn't have tears in his eyes, that would be ridiculous.

Stiles is a liar though and he totally spends fifteen minutes sitting in Deaton's car, eyes wide and breaths stuttered and quiet.

It's another half hour before he starts the car and heads back to Deaton's, mind not even on the road as he looks at the lock and binding runes on his wrist.

How many times has he used those to get out of a sticky jam? To unlock a door and help tie bad guys up in perfect knots? Stiles doesn't know what he would have done without his runes in the past, what would have happened to him if he was well and truly defenseless.

He can still remember the fear that gripped him before he convinced Deaton to carve him like a turkey, when a group of hunters had caught him alone and he'd been forced to draw a shielding rune on the concrete floor in his own blood.

Stiles shivers at the memory as he parks the car outside of Deaton's, touching his speed rune as he takes the stairs.

He lets out a breathless laugh, smile too big for his face as he races up the stairs. It takes him only twenty seconds to climb three floors and he's not even breathing hard. It's like he just took a step and suddenly appeared there.

Stiles flexes his arm, watching the spiral and twist of the speed rune shimmer and glow and quietly rubs his thumb over it, rubbing away the magic.

He didn't know how much he missed this part of him until he has it back, giddy with the fresh magic still thrumming through him.

Fuck, he hasn't felt this good since the scars healed. It's like he didn't even notice how much of him was missing before, since he carefully avoided thinking too much about it.

It's weird, he thinks, as he unlocks the door to Deaton's apartment, that the witch would do it so freely.

What had she said before she touched him? The memory is fuzzy, a roar in his ears where her words should be. It's almost exactly like what happened when the timekeep grabbed him weeks ago, when he whispered into his ear and held his body.

The woman couldn't possibly be a timekeep though, could she? She was normal looking. The timekeep he saw was pitch black and shaped like a person. Stiles decides she can't be a timekeep, but bites his lip, unsure.

He doesn't actually know enough about timekeeps to make a guess. He warily eyes the stack of books on the coffee table by his couch, sighing. He'd looked it up days ago, as soon as he slept off the energy he used warding the Hale house, he'd looked for a translate website online.

But, while Google translate launched early 2007, he guessed, from all the hype they were giving it on Google, he guesses they don't actually do more advanced translations until later. Right now, he can only do Spanish, German, French, and English translations.

Stiles really fucking hates 2007 and everything about it.

He sets his bag on the counter and goes about putting everything away in the closet. He goes against Deaton's filing system and just shoves all the bottles next to each other on a shelf. He's going to be using them soon anyway since, he checks the calender on the other side of the room, the next new moon is in twelve days.

Stiles determinedly does not look at the other date circled in a red sharpie, since he does not need a reminder that he only has almost four weeks until the eclipse. Thinking about things like that is seriously not good for Stiles' mental health.

The computer has switched to a screen saver in his absence, neon colored pipes running all over the screen. He shakes the mouse and isn't sure whether he's happy or upset that his bug actually did what it was supposed to.

Stiles really doesn't have the stomach to read what ever Derek talks to Kate about. Instead of looking at the messages to filter out which ones are Kate's, he goes back to the phone records and looks for which number Derek text the most. After he finds it, he enters it in and CTRL + A's the entire log without looking at it. He pastes' it to a word document and starts printing it out, sighing regretfully as the words “sweetie” and “baby” stand out against the white paper.

Stiles quickly looks away and flicks on the TV, watching the news absently, he thinks it's something about a book releasing tonight, he isn't paying attention, until the thirty pages of text finish printing. He only copied ones from the past two weeks, but he figures there has to be some blackmail material in there. He'll look through it later, he decides, stomach twisting in revulsion.

Once the printer stops making that godawful sound, Stiles hops up and quickly shoves all of the pages into a manilla envelope he scoured the drawers for and licks it shut, not even sparing it a glace. If they're anything like what he saw last time he hung out with Derek, Stiles shudders at the memory, then he has no doubt he'll vomit again.

And he's been doing so good about not hurling his lunch lately.

Stiles writes 'PRIVATE TIME TRAVEL BUSINESS' on the folder in a thick black sharpie and shoves it to the bottom of his bag, wanting nothing more than to get it out of his sight. Then he grabs one of his mom's books at random and puts it in there too, hoping it's good enough.

He's been meaning to visit his mom again anyway.

* * *

He doesn't sit outside the hospital in a jumble of angst like last time. Instead, he practically runs through the corridors until he gets to his mom's room. He doesn't even wait for her to sense him with her ward and pushes open the door.

And then screeches to a halt as he sees a familiar face sitting next to his mom's bed.

“Um,” is the only thing his brain can supply.

How could he have forgotten that he used to be so tiny? Fuck, his head really is shaped like an egg.

“Szczęsny,” Claudia says, and it takes a few seconds of gaping before he realizes she's talking to the younger him sitting beside her, “How about you go get yourself a snack, huh?”

She thrust a five dollar bill in his hands. The kid looks between Stiles and his mom skeptically, but then seems to sigh, resigned, and takes the money from her.

“I'm coming right back,” He warns her with a stern finger, and Stiles feels a blush heat up the back of his neck. Jesus, was he always that protective? Stiles remembers the way he acted when Allison ended up in the hospital last May from an accident when she was stringing her bow, and sighs. Maybe he'll grow out of it someday.

Claudia doesn't seem to mind though, smiling at him indulgently, “Of course, kochanie. Remember, if you get those cookies you like you're going to have to take your other pill right before.”

Young him grumps and Stiles instantly remembers his early days of ADHD, when he'd have to take a morning pill and an afternoon pill as an instant release. Life hasn't exactly been hard ever since he stopped taking his pills. It's been, well, almost normal, actually. Sometimes his mind wanders, but nowhere near the amount that it used to when he was off of them.

Stiles wonders if he grew out of his ADHD without anyone noticing, if maybe he just is like this naturally.

Younger him gives him this _look_ as he passes. It's not particularly threatening, or anything, it's just. Unnerving. Have his eyes always been that big? Jesus. How do people make eye contact with him so often? He's like a _deer_.

“You have two minutes before he's crouching beside the door to listen in. What are you doing here, Szczęsny?” Claudia asks him, smiling.

Stiles decides not to tell her how easily it slipped his mind that he used to walk here after school. How could he have forgotten how much trouble he would get into with his parents all the time? _“That's a dangerous road, Stiles,”_ His dad used to say to him, sighing sadly. It did nothing to deter him from spending time with his mom, though.

Her greeting last time he was here suddenly makes more sense too. _Ty Bachorze_ , she had yelled when she pulled open the door, _you brat._

“I went to that store downtown,” Stiles says as he sets his bag down on a vacant chair and starts unbuttoning his flannel. He lays it over the back of it, watching as Claudia's eyes narrow in on the runes around his arms. “They haven't worked since I was sent back. I don't think I told you that last time I was here-”

“You didn't,” She cuts him off, and there's something in her eyes that makes Stiles pause.

“Right,” He draws out, “I guess I must have skipped that part. But, look, there was this woman there, alright? And she- Mom, she fixed them.”

“Did she now?”

Her tone doesn't give anything away. It sounds so wrong for his mother to use, the woman who laughed freely and let her anger roar whenever she was mad. Stiles looks at her, trying to catch what's wrong.

“Are you mad that I'm here?” He asks her, hating the way his voice catches.

Her face instantly drops, “No, no, no of course not kochanie. You're welcome here anytime, you know that, right?”

Stiles scratches the back of his head awkwardly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, “I assumed it was okay,” He tells her, looking away, “You're just acting... different.”

Claudia grabs his wrist and tugs him to face her, lips in a line, “I was just shocked to see your arms. You wore a long sleeve shirt last time you were here. I, um, wasn't expecting it and I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome.”

Stiles bites his lip, “Is there something wrong with my arms, mom?”

She drops his wrist slowly, patting the top of his hand, and shrugs, “It's not the way of the iskra to mark yourself. We prefer to draw ours into the earth, not mutilate our bodies.”

Stiles flinches back from the tone of her voice, and she instantly looks apologetic.

Did Deaton know back when he asked him to do this? Is that why he seemed to hesitant to do what Stiles had asked? Stiles looks down at the floor, suddenly feeling wrong in his skin for reasons he can't even understand; like he's disappointed his mom somehow.

Claudia lets go of him and sits back on her bed, “It's just a cultural difference, I suppose.”

“Right,” Stiles says, and is careful to keep his bitterness out of his voice. He'll have to ask Deaton about it later. He has to focus on the Hale's for now, he tells himself, forcing away the sick feeling inside of him. He grabs his back and pulls out the book, “I know you said I would figure something out but I seriously don't have any idea what this thing says. Deaton even tried to translate it and he got nothing.”

She holds out her hand for the thick book and runs her hand across it soft, smiling at the worn pages, “He wouldn't be able to read it even if he was fluent in Polish,” She tells him, smiling mischievously. She turns it over and taps on a mark at the book. It's small, almost unnoticeable. “Your babcia was somewhat creative in her young age. She made this rune, did you know that?”

Stiles instantly bites down on his tongue, keeping in the comment threatening to spill out. No. He doesn't know that. How would he know that? It's not like she ever actually took the time to _tell_ him any of this. He manages to give her a jerky shake of his head in response.

“It keeps anyone not accepted into the Leśniewski line from being able to read it,” Claudia tells him, her maiden name rolling off her tongue, “Because this? Stiles, you brought me your pradziadek's journal. Do you understand how many families would kill for this book?”

Claudia opens it, smiling at the slanted writing, “Once you get past the soup recipies, it's full of knowledge of our kind.”

The door opens quickly and Stiles practically breaks his neck turning to see who enters. It's him again, of course, holding a box of chips a hoy cookies and a bottle of apple juice. Claudia reaches over and tugs his transformers backpack off of his chair and opens the front pocket. She shakes a small, blue pill out of an orange bottle and holds it out to him.

Young him huffs but takes the pill, taking a quick chug of apple juice.

“How much longer do I have to use these ones?” Young him, well, he doesn't whine per say, but there is definitely a tone being taken.

“Just a bit longer,” Claudia assures him, but young him shakes his head.

“I was asking him,” the young boy says casually, looking over at Stiles, who sits ram rod straight at the sentence.

“What?” Claudia and him ask at the same time, sharing a look.

He rolls his eyes, “I'm not an idiot, mom. I saw him leaving the hospital last week and I know he got into the house without breaking in,” He turns to Stiles, “Thanks for that, by the way. I got grounded from Mario Kart. Hope your happy.”

Both Claudia and Stiles continue to sit still in a small form of horror. Stiles isn't too shocked, actually, because he definitely could have been more careful. Did he completely forget what he used to be like, or did he just block out this entire year? His detective game has seriously dropped since he was twelve, fuck.

The kid huffs, “You didn't even try to hide our moles.”

“Who immeditately thinks 'time traveling self from the future' and _just goes along with it_?” Stiles asks, seriously impressed with himself. He'd reach over and knuckle bump the little dude, but Claudia looks ready to have an anuerism.

He shrugs, “I don't know! I didn't want to cause, like, a time paradox, or something. Scott and I watched The Butterfly Effect a few weeks ago. I took it as a sign.”

That seems to shock Claudia out of whatever funk she was in, “That movie is rated R! Co ty sobie myślałeś?!”

Young him rolls his eyes and grunts, “Not the point right now, mom.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, remembering what Claudia said last time he was here. He's not acting how he remembers, or how Claudia described; quiet and too afraid to even look at her. Is he taking his future self's presence here as a good omen? Or is it just giving him something else to focus on?

Knowing himself, Stiles is going for the latter.

“I'm telling your father about this, młody człowieku.”

“You're taking this well,” Stiles observes, recalling how, once it settled in that he was in the past, he sulked and whined for three weeks.

“Of course I am,” Young him says, “Stilinski's are awesome at rolling with things.”

“Right.” Stiles says, as an idea pops in his mind. He looks at Claudia out of the corner of his eyes, watches her rapidly texting on her flip phone, presumably to his dad or Melissa. “So, Stiles,” It feels wrong to call someone else his name and watch them respond to it, “Wanna be my Robin?”

His mom freezes, tensing up immediately.

Young him smiles big, white teeth almost blinding as his eyes brighten, “Of course!” He shouts excitedly, “Dude! I've been waiting for you to ask me for help for _weeks_.”

Stiles smiles back at himself and walks over, sitting in the chair next to him.

“You need to be friends with Isaac Lahey,” Stiles says, grabbing young him by the shoulders and staring intently into his own eyes. It's really weird, and if he thinks about it too much he feels the beginnings of a headache pinching between his eyes.

Young Stiles doesn't look impressed with the demand and makes a face, “Isaac smells like rotten fish.”

“That's what happens when you get locked in a freezer because your dad's crazy,” Stiles shrugs casually in a 'what can you do' gesture.

Claudia looks increasingly horrified with this turn of events, “Szczęsny, please, I'd rather we didn't-”

“Well, I'd rather we do,” Stiles cuts her off quickly, shocking both himself and her. He steps back from young him, who looks lost and his eyes snap back between Stiles and Claudia, biting his lip in apprehension.

He walks over to his mother, sitting on the bed with her hands fisted in a knuckle white grip on her thin bedding. Gently, he unwinds her fingers from the fabric and tries to rub soothing circles into her skin with his thumb, “It's okay,” He tells her, trying to get her to understand, “Mom,” His voice cracks on the word, “Trust me. He's ready.”

“No he's not, Stiles!” She hisses in a whisper, pulling her hand back sharply. Stiles ignores the tug of pain he feels at the motion and stands his ground, “You're not even ready for it! You're just a child yourself, and he's just a-”

Stiles' eyes harden at the words and he glares at her. It hits him suddenly, all the emptiness he felt when he was twelve, how fucking lonely and scared he was as he stood beside his father at her funeral, the way he had to ride his bike down to the grocery store with money stolen from his dad's pockets just to keep their house stocked for a solid month after her death, and he grits out, “I haven't been a kid since I was his age, either.”

Her mouth goes slack, but he barrels on, “Look, it's going to happen, okay? I know that, and you know that, fuck, even dad knows that, as much as he tries to ignore it,” He drops his voice to a whisper, “Him? He doesn't know that, and when it happens, it's going to pull the rug out from under him.”

She looks away, but not before he can see tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. His heart stops at the sight, and before he knows it, he's reaching out for her, pulling her into a hug. She hugs him tight, crushing him to her small frame, and he can hear the ragged breathing that means she's crying.

“Do you know how happy I was when Deaton told me?” Stiles whispers into her ear, “I was so ecstatic, mom. I was just- Having that part of you? That spark that you had? It made me feel- It was like- I-” His words catch in his throat and he swallows, trying to hold back the sob slowly climbing up his throat. He clenches his eyes shut and burrows into her shoulder, “When I started learning, I didn't even know you had it too, but it was the first time in _years_ I felt like you were there.”

She pulls him impossibly closer, a broken sound escaping her throat, and she nods against him, crying out her permission as she rocks him back and forth.

“I'm so sorry,” She's saying over and over, “I'm so, so sorry, kochanie.”

When she finally releases him, he turns around to see young him eating cookies and pretending to read the back of his juice bottle.

“Watching your glucose intake?” He teases, trying to break the ice. He tries to casually rub his eyes, hoping he doesn't have any tears there.

“Yep,” The other Stiles says, popping the p, “Gotta start changing things now If I don't want to look like your ugly mug someday.”

Stiles reaches over and flicks himself on the head, smiling at the squawk.

He gets a glare but it's really ineffective. Has he always looked like he was pouting when he tries to be angry? Jesus. No wonder no one ever took him seriously. Stiles fights the urge to poke at the baby face sitting across from him.

“So,” He starts, playing with a cookie like he's considering throwing it at his future self's head, “What was that about Lahey?”

Stiles sighs and rest his head on his hands, “You need to be friends with him. And Erica Reyes. And Vernon Boyd.”

Young him's face is carefully blank, “What.”

Stiles ignores him, “And you need to convince dad that Isaac is in an abusive home.”

Both Claudia and Stiles' eyes widen at that.

“So, I just like, pity befriend these kids and the future all works out?” Young him asks, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Stiles laughs suddenly, but it's bitter and off and makes Claudia eye him worriedly. Fuck, he wishes everything was that simple. Nothing about this is easy. Every time he solves one problem, he feels like he finds two more in front of him. It's all just piling up, and every time it feels like he can breathe it's like getting punched in the gut all over again. If he thought sophomore year was a constant panic attack, it's nothing compared to this. That timekeep was a fucking asshole for doing this to him.

“Kinda,” Stiles just says, instead of the rant on the tip of his tongue. He pushes aside the weird sense of loneliness that's seeped inside of him, because he seriously cannot deal with that right now. He's going to break soon, he can feel it, but he needs to keep it together for now. Just for a few more hours, he tells himself. “You genuinely like them. They're my friends in the future, and they're really awesome. You know Erica? She reads comic books. She thinks cat woman is the best antihero, but I figure it's okay for her opinion to suck, you know? And Boyd's way better than Scott at watching scary movies, and he doesn't even eat all the popcorn. Isaac, well, Isaac's really great at making mac and cheese, dude, and he actually knows the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek.”

Young him's eyes practically sparkle, “Seriously?”

Stiles nods, “Seriously. I'm not gonna steer you to a crappy future.”

Claudia looks like she wants to reprimand him for the word, but her eyes are still filled with worry. Her mothering instincts are probably acting up. Fuck.

Stiles looks away from her.

“So, that's it?”

“That,” Stiles says, “And, you need to give up on Lydia.”

The reply is instant, and completely obvious, “No.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, “Dude.”

“No.”

“Man-”

“You don't understand, I _love_ her.”

“I've been there-”

“Then just tell me what you did wrong, so I can do the exact opposite of it!”

“I'm trying to help you.”

He snorts, “You're doing a bad job of it.”

“Look,” Stiles says, sighing. How did Scott not beat him over the head during puberty? “Lydia. She's. She's Lydia, okay? I know she's a strawberry blonde goddess, and I know she's smart and amazing and all things good in the world, but kid,” He tries to say it as gently as he can, “She's never going to love you.”

He can practically see the kid's heart breaking.

“But-”

“No, listen to me, okay? You don't love her, you love the idea of her. Do you even know her?”

“I know she's smarter than me and hides it, and I know she likes perfume that smells like pink roses, and I know she likes dark chocolate more than milk and-”

“That isn't her, man.” Stiles tries to tell him, “Those are just facts about her, okay? Trust me. You're better as friends.”

And his eyes instantly light back up, “Wait, are you saying we're friends in the future? That's perfect! I could make her fall in love with me like that!”

Stiles fights the urge to bash his head against the wall. Claudia stifles a laugh behind her hand, and Stiles sends her a mean look.

“Kochanie,” She says after she calms down, “I think you need to listen to yourself.” Everyone in the room ignores the absurdity of the statement. “He's been there, and he knows what's best for you, alright?”

Finally, the kid drops it. Stiles really doesn't know how to explain to his twelve year old self that this situation doesn't revolve around Lydia Martin.

He huffs, but quickly changes the subject, “So, what do those things on your arms mean? I thought dad said I wasn't allowed to get a tattoo?”

Stiles and his mom share a look, involving lots of eyebrows and mouths moving in silent letters. It takes a few seconds, but finally Claudia nods her acceptance and sighs.

Stiles grins and moves his left wrist in a fluid motion. It's been a while since he's done this, usually favoring electricity and fire, but he can't risk setting off a smoke alarm or taking out half the hospital's power. It's slow work, since he's not used to it. He never mastered it since he never thought it was too important. It's just water, right?

Young him's face is awed as moisture slowly seeps from the air into a sphere in his palm. It swirls around, moving into a tornado cone, roving around his hand.

“A friend of a friend knows someone who can cause a small storm,” Stiles tells him, smiling at the dazed expression, “Or, so the rumor mill says.”

He clenches his fist suddenly and the water stops moving, crackling as it slowly freezes over. He opens his palm and the icicle falls into it, causing him to hiss lightly at the sudden cold.

“What.” Is all young him says, blinking rapidly.

Stiles gets up and dumps the icicle in the sink, watching as it slowly melts down the drain. He turns and leans back against the counter, waving at his mother. She bites her lip, looking terribly conflicted, but finally nods.

She tells him everything. She's an iskra, or a spark, and so is her entire family. She tells him what it means, about the differences between witches and sparks, about what he can do with the proper training and guidance. He jumps in every now and then to explain a cultural difference. Like, how mentor's for new sparks in America are found outside the family, but iskra's prefer to keep the magic within the family. Not all sparks have to become emissary's, but their ties to both the supernatural and the natural are considered valuable.

“So, I can do magic?” He asks, gaping.

Stiles shrugs, because it's as good of an explanation as any. It took him a while to understand the difference between using magic and being magic.

“Basically,” Stiles says, walking over and sitting back in his chair. “But, it's up to you. We aren't like witches. They have to practice, or else they go crazy with pent up energy. With us, our magic has settle before we're able to do things like that neat party trick I just did. Witches can do things like that from the time they're able to walk. You aren't magic, you're just able to manipulate it.”

“You don't have to learn,” Claudia says, looking like she's ready to beg him not to, “You can forget we ever had this conversation, if you want to.”

Stiles fights the urge to glare at her, because really, it should be Batman's job to tell Robin to stay at the manor. Not Alfred's.

The young boy looks over at Stiles, and asks, eyes big and wide, “Is it good? To learn? If you had the choice, would you do it again?”

And he nods, because being a spark has always saved him, in the end. It's always been the thing that's made him more than a human, that's kept him tied to the pack and his friends, “But my situation was different from yours. I didn't learn about any of this until I was sixteen, and if I do this right, you shouldn't be put in the position to have to do what I did.”

“Who would teach me?” He asks, and his voice sounds small and determined at the same time.

They both look to Claudia, who sighs, “I can't do much more than keep up the ward on my room lately. I could send you to your wujek in Poland, but I don't think you'd like having to leave your dad.”

“No,” He says, “I don't want to learn if I have to leave him.”

“Deaton could teach you?” Stiles suggest, shrugging, “I could help, maybe, and it would technically still be in the family. Right?”

Claudia's lips tighten, “I'd prefer Marin, if I had the choice. Something about Alan never sat right with me, personally.”

Stiles chuckles, “Nothing about him sits right with anybody. I'm pretty sure Talia only trust him because she can kill him.”

Claudia laughs, “When your father and I moved here, he sought me out about fifteen times one day before I finally had to just throw him into the nearest wall and tell him that I wanted nothing to do with taking over his pack.”

He snorts, because, fuck, the mental image of his mother doing that to Deaton is hilarious, and says, “I'll get Marin's phone number, then. Deaton's nice, and he's letting me stay there while I figure everything out and stuff, but I really think Marin would be the better choice the second time around.”

Stiles remembers her determination the last time he saw her, her take no shit attitude, just how gray she saw the world, and knows he's making the right choice. She's also great at listening, since she's a certified therapist, and he knows that young him is going to need that desperately in a few months.

Claudia bites her lip, twitching like she wants to say something, but then decides against it. She reaches for the book on her bedside table and flips it open, leafing through the pages.

“Szczęsny,” She says, looking over the book at young him, “Your future self was sent back in time by a creature known more commonly as a timekeep. Your pradziadek was in a, uh, romantic relationship with one of them and, because of that, our family has more knowledge about them than most in the entire world.”

“I still don't understand how that worked,” Stiles mutters, grimacing at the memory.

His mother calmly slaps his arm, “You, be nice. Timekeeps are, basically, made out of the dust between universes, or,” She looks down at the book, mumbling to herself, “Alternate realities. They're able to manipulate time the way our kind can manipulate magic, but they don't do it as freely. There's a set way each universe is supposed to go, with small inconsistencies that can be changed. Set points in time are things that have to happen,” She looks up and explains, “Like World War 1 and 2. If a World War 3 happened, it would be going against the timeline. Things like that.

“Sometimes, to keep things moving along at its natural pace, a timekeep will have to take the body of another. These bodies are freely given, in exchange for a deal. If a timekeep can make it happen, then the giver will receive it the next day. Some people compare it to making a deal with the devil, as something always seems to go sour with them.

“Ah, um, we're going to skip this page,” She mumbles, “He wasn't very good at poetry, your pradziadek.”

Young him giggles, and Stiles just smiles. He'll have to translate those later, maybe, if only for a good laugh.

“Um, their eyes. Stiles, when you called that timekeep to you, did its eyes change colors?”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, uh, I think it went from orange and gold a lot?”

“Well, that would make sense. Each of their eyes have a layer of time, except white which is just normal vision. Orange is all timelines, like the course of how the timeline is going and should go. Bright orange is all universes, which is kind of the same thing. And Gold is one persons personal timeline.”

She turns a few more pages, a blush on her cheeks, “Someone really should have edited this years ago,” She coughs, “Um, a timekeep can send a person back in time, but it eats at their energy and leaves them vulnerable, so sometimes they'll have to trade to go back. Szczęsny, do you remember ever making a deal with your timekeep?”

“He said something when he was touching me,” Stiles shrugs, moving his arm along his shoulders and side like the timekeep did when it grabbed him all those nights ago, “Maybe that's what it was doing? I don't remember what it said, though.”

Claudia barely conceals her glare at his runes, “Did you hear anything when Alan was carving those into your skin? I've heard that the process can take away some of the senses.”

Stiles shrugs again, because he doesn't really remember what he felt when Deaton was placing his scars on him besides the rush of power. He tells her as much.

His mom looks back to the book, sighing, “Well, it doesn't matter now I suppose since that witch helped you out.”

“Speaking of the witch,” He cuts her off, “I was wondering, is there any chance she could be a timekeep? She seemed to know more than she let on...”

Claudia snorts, “I doubt it. This says that timekeeps can't cross their own timelines, and I doubt that if this one messed up enough he had to send you back to fix its mistake, that he'd let any others of his kind anywhere near here. I think you're safe from any surprises from their kind, kochanie.”

His mom looks over at young him, pointing a finger at him, “You are not to do what he has done, agreed?” Young him eyes the scars on his arms and nods, looking away. “Marin knows enough of the iskra to teach you that way, not this Western version.”

Stiles looks away and bites at the skin of his thumb, adding another feeling to the pile of ignorance for today.

“Szczęsny,” His mother calls. She closes the book in her lap and sets it off to the side. When he looks up, her eyes are sad and full of pity, making his heart clench, “You understand... You know that you can't go back to where you came from, right?”

And Stiles nods, because he's suspected as much, but the words hurt in a way he never expected. It feels like a rock lodged itself in his throat and he fist his hands, nails digging into the skin of his palms. He's known this, has accepted it, but it just.

Knowing that he'll never see any of them again, the way he loves them, fucking feels like a knife to the gut.

“You affect the timeline,” She says to him, and turns to his younger self, “And you're effected _by_ the timeline. You two have to remember that.”

“I have to go,” He says quickly, “Thanks for uh, thanks for everything, mom.”

Stiles stands and kisses her on the forehead. He leaves the book next to her, hoping it'll be more use to her than him since he can't even read it, and shoves on his flannel.

Young him stands and comes over to his side, holding out his hand, “It's going to be an honor saving the future with you, Batman.”

Stiles smirks.

It's weird to hug yourself goodbye, but they manage it with minimal awkwardness.

“I'll come by in a few days, okay?” Stiles reminds him, rubbing his hand over the prickly mess of a buzz cut, and young him nods enthusiastically.

“I can't wait!” He says, eyes bright and he's practically jumping with anticipation.

Stiles chuckles and closes the door behind him on his way out, sighing sadly as he can hear his little voice buzz excitedly at his mother. At least he broke that barrier, he thinks, smiling to himself.

There's activity behind him, people talking loudly and doors opening and closing. He's not too surprised since it's a hospital, but when he turns to start heading toward the exit, his blood runs cold.

The man is almost bald, that's fore sure, with a few sparse white hairs here and there. He has a brown coat on, one Stiles is sure he's seen before, and his wrinkly hand is shoving a small capsule back into the pocket as he stands at the nurses station. There's a woman next to him with long blond hair. He can't see her face, but she's standing in a familiarly cocky fashion with her hands shoved into her jacket pockets.

No, he thinks, frozen in place, mouth falling open, it _can't_ be.

The short nurse glares at the man and hands him a clip board; points a stern finger at him and says, “Now, Mr. Argent, you're aware you're signing yourself out of here against medical advice, correct?”

Gerard laughs, the sound of his nightmares hitting him like a swift kick to the gut, and signs his name on the discharge form, winking at the young woman standing next to him, “Deary, don't you worry about me. I may be an old man, but I know how to take care of myself.”

Stiles promptly spins around and vomits into a conveniently placed trashcan.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co ty sobie myślałeś?! - What were you thinking?!  
> pradziadek – great grandfather  
> babcia - grandmother  
> kochanie – sweetie, sweet one, sweetling, etc.  
> iskra - spark  
> wujek - uncle  
> młody człowieku – young man


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made [this](http://the-candy-van.tumblr.com/post/66435253865) and [this](http://the-candy-van.tumblr.com/post/66481701740/original-x) because i have no life

Stiles is almost running on auto pilot as he wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

He's watching Kate flip her hair over her shoulder as he rolls up his flannel. She smirks at Gerard like a shark just as he rubs a thumb along the rune in the soft skin under his arm, right above his elbow. This one hurt like a bitch to get, but Stiles doesn't even reminisce in the pain now as he feels the ripple of slime rolling down his skin.

It happens quickly, the fading. He's done it before, of course, and he had squawked and squirmed uncomfortably as the ever present feeling of being covered in goop stayed with him. Now, the discomfort is a small price to pay to walk around undetected.

Kate laughs at some joke Gerard makes to the nurse and he sneers at them as he passes. They can't see it, but it makes him feel a bit better all the same. His fingers clench as he fights the urge to light a fire under their asses. All he can remember is Gerard's smile when he beat him up down in the basement, the look in his eye when he ordered the kanima on Allison, how Scott still shudders whenever he remembers the incident with the knife and his mom.

And Kate. Fucking Kate.  _“I was a kid,”_  Derek's voice comes to his mind,  _“I- I was still recovering from Paige. And she made me feel like I wasn't so alone. I thought... I thought she loved me.”_

Stiles bites harshly into his lip to keep himself in check.No. He can't do it here. He made a promise to Talia. This was such a bullshit plan from the start. Why did he agree to it? Stiles knew he wouldn't be able to do this, but he went along with it anyway because he's such an idiot.

The gift shop is at the front of the hospital. The doors don't even jingle as he opens them, sliding between people with a grace he doesn't normally posses. He swipes a disposable camera off of a rack near pink and blue teddy bears and stuffs it in his bag.

Stiles drops two crumbled dollar bills on the counter on his way out, because he's not a total douche bag.

Kate and Gerard are still signing forms when he passes them, so he stalks out to the parking lot. His hands feel like they're on fire, the power of his anger rippling right under his skin, but he just grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms.

As soon as he's near Deaton's car, he rubs at the rune until it stops glowing and the slime feeling leaves him instantly. He's not about to go around driving a car invisible. (Scott and him had already tried that once and a poor old lady almost had a heart attack. Stiles had to act like he had just reached down to pick up a CD and his dad had been fighting a smile at him while he wrote him a ticket.)

He opens the door with more force than necessary and throws his bag in, dropping himself into the drivers seat. He slams the door shut, mentally apologizing to Deaton for taking his anger out on his car.

Once inside, he relaxes his hands and looks at the crescent shapes dug into his flesh. They're ringed red, looking only a step away from dripping blood all over him. Stiles fidgets slightly and reaches to his side, hiking his shirt up. His protection rune is still out of order, a large scar cutting into it. Deaton had taken out the stitches a few days ago.

Stiles doesn't even have to touch it to know it won't work anymore. If it had been, then he wouldn't have been able to hurt his hands.

Stiles reaches to the back of his shoulder, pawing around until he feels the familiar '4' shape with jagged lines and rubs it, focusing on his hands. The skin heals over instantly, like there weren't even cuts there to begin with.

Stiles fleetingly wonders why the timekeep severed his protection rune. If he was being sent back here on some stupid mission for the greater good or whatever, shouldn't he have been protected?

Maybe it interfered with its magic, or whatever. Like hell is he going to ask his mom about it.

Her face flashes in his mind, the hardness of her eyes as she saw his arms, and Stiles quickly shakes his head.

Had Talia known that Gerard was here? She must have, Stiles decides, remembering her face when Derek and him pulled up after he visited his mom. She must have just smelt  _cancer_  or something and went with it. Peter and Talia told him he was in town, and he had, what, just let it slip his mind?

Stiles lets his head slump against the steering wheel. How had he forgotten about Gerard? He's planned for everything else but he left himself a giant blind spot like  _him_? Stiles isn't sure if he's an idiot, or just tired. Fuck, he's so tired. He's never felt this drained in his life, this exhaustion that just clings to him.

He feels tears prick at his eyes, but he hastily rubs them away. God, he just wishes his pack was here. Scott would clap him on the back and smile that fucking smile that seems to make everything okay, and he'd come up with some great plan to get rid of Gerard. He did it before. While Stiles was getting his ass kicked by the geriatric freak, Scott was doing some behind the scenes recon with Deaton.

Scott would be so much better at this than he is, Stiles thinks.

Kate and Gerard walk out of the hospital, laughing at something. Probably some “subtle” joke about hunting again. Stiles doesn't really care. He rubs at the tension built in his temples and tries to calm down.

He can't be stupid with this. He has Kate and Gerard _right here_. He needs to do something at least. He eyes the shape of the disposable camera sticking out of his bag, Peter's voice reminding him of their shitty plan.

Kate and Gerard get into their big black SUV.

Stiles waits until Kate is at the exit of the parking lot before putting his car into reverse. Fuck the plan. He's doing this his way.

Staying two cars behind, Stiles follows them for a few blocks. He tries to remain inconspicuous, but it's a bit hard when you're following two of the craziest hunters. He wouldn't be surprised if Kate noticed him a block back. Maybe she's leading him to some run down part of town so she can slit his throat.

The fire is still bubbling under his skin. He'll burn her before she can even touch him, he promises himself.

Except she doesn't drive to some abandoned building. She parks outside of an apartment complex. Stiles parks at the end of the street, hands almost shaking. He's going to do it. He's actually going to get rid of these sick sacks of shit.

But, only Gerard's door opens. The engine remains running and he can see Gerard wave at Kate. Stiles balks.

Of course, the one fucking time he has both of the Argent’s together, they're going to split up.

He flicks the listening rune on his shoulder on and catches Gerard saying, “-ou be careful with your little pup, Kate.”

“I have him well trained, don't worry. He's practically eating out of my hand.”

“All the same. You have to remember that they're beast, and even the youngest of them can kill a thousand of us.”

Kate must nod, because Gerard smiles and closes the door. Stiles glares at the SUV, watching as Gerard walks with a skip in his step toward the front door. They had to have been talking about Derek; acting like he's a fucking dog. Only Stiles is allowed to make dog jokes, and even then he gets cuffed on the head for it and dirty looks.

Stiles rubs his rune off, biting his lip. Kate starts the car and drives away, and Stiles only hesitates thirty seconds before following her. He catches the tail end of her bumper turning and speeds up to catch her. She drives two more blocks before parking outside of a cafe next to the ice cream shop he and his dad used to frequent.

Stiles quietly hopes that he doesn't run into his younger self again. He's awesome, but he knows that little him wouldn't be too great at this spy stuff.

He waits until Kate steps inside before thumbing his elbow. He shudders mildly at the feeling slithering down his body as he steps out of the car, dragging his pack over his shoulder.

Stiles still doesn't really understand how the rune works. If he touches large objects, they stay solid and opaque, but as soon as he touches something small, it disappears along with him. One time, they had to follow a group of hunters to their league of doom, and Scott and Lydia convinced him to scratch the rune into the bumper of his jeep. It worked fine once he activated it, but it didn't make Lydia or Scott undetectable. It looked like they were mermaid man and barnacle boy sitting in the invisible boat mobile.

In the end, it took an hour of arguing before Stiles got the brilliant idea to just draw the rune in a sharpie on their wrist. They lost track of the big bads, sure, but at least they learned a new trick.

Kate's ordering at the counter when he walks in. The bell on the door doesn't even jingle to alert his presence, and no one notices the door opening by itself.

Stiles finds a seat in the corner of the room and kicks it out, reaching into his bag for the camera. As he sits, he fiddles with it. He hasn't actually used a camera since his last school field trip, and even that one was digital. He winds it up and looks out through the small rectangle, squinting at the view.

Kate sits down at a table in the middle of the room, picking at the wrapper of her muffin. There are two coffees in front of her and she slides one across from her.

Stiles takes a practice shot as he waits. He vaguely hopes no one tries to sit on him, but the coffee shops is pretty deserted so he doesn't think too hard on it.

The door rings as it opens, and Stiles knew he was coming anyway, but his stomach drops as soon as he sees Derek's smiling face waltz in.

Stiles' breath still taste mildly of barf, but he can already feel his stomach churning for round two.

He snaps another picture almost blindly as Derek leans down. He assumes he kisses her cheek, wouldn't actually know because the awesome wallpaper next to him has captured his attention. It's some weird red and black pattern. Are those supposed to be flowers or sconces? He just doesn't know.

When he deems it safe to look back, Derek's sitting in the chair across from Kate and smiling at her. Stiles has seen this Derek smile a few times, not a lot since he's been kind of avoiding him and the Hales, except for Laura, but this is an entirely new smile. It's not even a flirty one, like when he had to distract the cop for Stiles in his own time. It's blissfully happy.

Stiles snaps a picture of that too, hating the way his hands seem to have grown clammy.

What happened to his righteous fury? He had felt like the world was going to end if he didn't tear Kate apart a few minutes ago. Now he just feels empty.

Empty and sad. He can see Derek and Kate's lips moving, but all he can hear is Derek, his Derek, carefully describing his sordid affair with Kate.

There's a ringing in his ear, but Stiles ignores it, captures Kate's hand holding Derek's as she grins at him.

She calls him “Sweetie,” and Stiles closes his eyes because Derek's smile brightens at the pet name. He can't even tell that it's dripping in patronization.

Derek flips his palm up, holding Kate's hand in his, and his wrist twitches at the touch. Stiles knows what that means to werewolves. Peter had taunted him with that information once, right after he tore Cora's throat out.

“ _It's trust,”_ Peter had laughed insanely,  _“Anytime we show our veins, it's a sign of trust. And you trusted me, Stiles, in that parking garage. It was a small trust, but you did. You let me lift your wrist and practically bared it to me. Yet, you had the audacity to say you wanted to be human.”_

And then his eyes had glowed red, like a promise, and the fangs in his mouth grew impossibly wide, and Stiles-

Derek brings Kate's hand to his mouth and smiles shyly as he places a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

Stiles bolts to the bathroom.

He dry heaves into the toilet, nothing coming up because he only vomited not even twenty minutes ago. It's eerily quiet, his rune keeping him from making noise as he clutches at the toilet bowl. A yellow goop forces itself out of his mouth and Stiles shudders at the taste on the back of his tongue.

He flushes the toilet, grimacing at the swirling mess. The toilet's loud in the bathroom, his rune not affecting it.

Stiles slams open the door and runs to the faucet. He cups his hands under the water and gulps greedily. He should start carrying around a toothbrush, if this is going to be a reoccurring thing. God, he's going to have an ulcer by the time this is over.

His mouth tastes like ass, so he keeps drinking water, and it runs down his chin and splashes on the front of his shirt.

After a few minutes, Stiles turns the faucet off, his breathing harsh. He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes, throws the memory of Peter as far away as he can. He's gotten really good at this repressing emotions thing, but for some reason he just can't shake it this time.

It's not like Peter had even gotten close enough to bite him. The pack burst through the door right after Stiles yelled. It wasn't until later that everyone found out that Derek had transferred his alpha title to Cora when he saved her. Not even Cora knew, but Peter did.

Once Derek killed Peter, he became the alpha again, and Lydia made sure they buried Peter right. She cut him in half herself, Stiles standing close to and offering emotional support. It was very cathartic.

Stiles grabs some paper towels to dry his face, patting his shirt and chest dry as well. His mouth feels almost normal now, but he's still going to take a bath in mouthwash as soon as he gets back to Deaton's. The camera's on the bathroom floor, thrown there in his mad dash to the toilet.

He picks it up, sighing. A white bubble above the dial tells him he has thirty four more shots to get Kate sent to jail. Stiles really misses the plan where he just killed her and Gerard and called it a day.

Back out in the shop, Kate's leaning close to Derek with her hand on his thigh. Stiles takes a picture, makes sure to get her face in it. He hates how Derek's cheeks flush, hates even more how he has to take another picture as she rest a kiss on his cheek with a smirk.

Voyeurism has never been his thing. At least he literally has nothing else in his stomach at this point. He thinks that if he vomits again then his throat may just come out instead of puke.

Stiles can't stay in the store anymore, he feels like he's being suffocated by the image of Kate and Derek, so he just leaves. Kate's car is parked across the street, and he gets a great idea.

Why go down for just being a creepy bitch? Why not go down for being a creepy psychotic bitch?

He makes sure the car is out of sight line from the cafe windows before he walks over. It's locked, of course, so he rubs his thumb over his right wrist. It glows as he presses his arm flush against the trunk of the SUV.

His locking rune has always been handy, he thinks, as he hears the telltale click of the car. The back lights flash as it whirrs open automatically, and Stiles smirks.

Hunters are so predictable. The guns aren't even hidden, they're just laid out in the open. If Kate didn't have her windows almost blacked out, then she would have gotten pulled over for this a while ago.

Stiles takes three pictures of the trunk from various angles, trying to get all of them in the shot. Some of them have to be illegal, right? Even Chris didn't have registration on all of his guns, but he got away with it because he was a licensed gun dealer. Is Kate one too?

Whatever. The investigation will be enough to slow her down from skipping town, at least.

He puts the camera back in his bag and starts rooting around in the trunk. Like hell is going to leave- Ah, found them. The wolfsbane bullets are in the same box Scott described years ago, with the familiar plant etched into the wood. He shoves it and other two boxes, different strands, he thinks, into his bag.

There's a jar in another bag, and he only has to peak at it before he knows exactly what it is. Humans  _can_  use mountain ash. He knows that, has read studies in the differences between a sparks use and a humans use multiple times, but he's never actually seen a hunter carry the stuff. Is this how she locked the Hales in the basement in Stiles' time?

Stiles doesn't risk it and drops it in his bag too. He can always use a bit of mountain ash.

There's nothing else that he thinks he needs in the bags, but he finds a piece of paper with a phone number on it. C.A., it says, followed by a San Diego area code.

Chris Argent? Stiles puts the number in his crappy phone with a question mark after it, just incase. Chris and Allison were the only two hunters who played by the rules in his time. Chris might be good to have as an ally. Victoria could end up being a problem, though.

Stiles tries to put everything back as he found it. It's pointless, since it's only a matter of time until Kate realizes she's missing all of her wolfsbane bullets. She shouldn't be hunting right now, so maybe she won't notice.

Stiles hopes she doesn't notice, if what Peter said about her moving her plans up if she feels threatened being true.

He closes the trunk and presses his left wrist against the door, hearing the whirring and the clicks as it locks again. He tugs on it, just to make sure it's locked.

The coffee shop door opens and Kate walks out, Derek trailing behind her. Stiles scrambles for his camera and snaps a picture, just as she grabs his hand.

Kate wraps her free arm and his chest and pulls his body flush against hers, her grin saying more than words really can. Stiles takes another picture, teeth grinding together so hard he may chip a molar.

She leads him into an alley and Stiles feels sick but he follows after them, camera poised like some sick peeping tom.

She's holding Derek against the wall, leg hiked up over his hip as she kisses him. Derek's arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her close to him and Kate pulls away to laugh, breathless as her hand slides down his body.

Stiles takes more pictures, but all he can see is his Derek's face anytime someone brought up the name Argent.

Stiles feels disgusted as he takes another picture. Fuck Derek. Snap. Fuck the timekeep. Snap. Fuck Kate Argent and her crazy family. Snap. Fuck himself for getting involved in all of this. Snap.

Fuck this crazy, psychotic, bitch and her brilliant plan to manipulate an emotionally vulnerable sixteen-year-old boy.

Derek moans, “I love you,” as Kate plays with his zipper, and Stiles is done. He's so done, it's not even funny.

The wind picks up before he even thinks about it and it pushes at Kate, insistently. Her hair flies around her as he  _forces_  her to take a step back. He wants to slam her against the wall until her head bleeds, but he barely manages to reign himself in. Stiles stops as soon as Derek and Kate's confused eyes meet each other, pulling in air through his teeth as he fights the urge to hurt her.

He turns around, just as Kate gathers herself again and smirks, “I love you too, sweetie.”

Stiles doesn't care that there are still eighteen blank frames on his camera. He throws it in his bag and stalks past Kate's truck. There's a deep moan from the alley and Stiles reaches into his pocket blindly, pulling out his pocket knife. He flips it open and jams it into her tire, not even smiling as the air hisses out.

Once he's back in the car, he rubs his rune away. As he's pulling out of the parking space, he calls Laura on his cellphone.


	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a bit heavy in this chapter so if you're sad after you should all totally go read [my wife's fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1043977) to make you happy yay

“I may have done something illegal.” Stiles says as he climbs out of the car.

Laura's sitting on the porch waiting for him and moves to stand as he gets closer. She raises an eyebrow, “Okay, maybe doing something illegal and doing something illegal are two completely different things, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, he grew up with a police officer for a dad, _fuck you very much Laura,_ “Alright, I did something illegal.”

She eyes him warily, “What did you do? You understand that if you get caught we're going to have to answer a hell of a lot of awkward questions.”

“Yeah,” Stiles climbs the stairs, and opens the front door, Laura at his heels, “Being twelve years old really puts a damper on my criminal career.”

Laura's nose twitches as she closes the door behind her. “You smell weird,” She informs him helpfully.

Stiles shrugs off his flannel and stuffs it in his bag. He lifts his arm and shows her the rune near his elbow, “It makes me invisible and undetectable. I basically disappear.”

Laura's face twitches unpleasantly, “But, like, what if that's used against you? Then no one would be able to find out where you are, right?”

Stiles never really thought about that before and pulls a face.

“Thanks Laura. Now I'm going to be paranoid for the rest of my life,” He grouches, shoving his flannel in his bag. It's getting to be Mary Poppins levels of holding things. Maybe he'll draw an enhancing rune on it later. “The only ones who should be able to use them are other sparks.”

Laura snorts, “Right. Because all sparks are _so_ heavenly.” She leans in close and whispers, “You know Deaton's sister? Morrell? Mom thinks _she_ killed Duecalion. Some guy came sniffing around here the other day from his pack, sniveling about reinstating the treaty because he's the new alpha?”

A guy comes around the corner. He's big, almost as big as Derek was in Stiles' time, except he's leaner. He has long, thick hair tied back in a pony tail, and he lets out a puff of air in response to Laura's whisper. If Stiles thinks on it, he remembers that he was one of the people in the dining room the day Laura first brought Stiles to the Hale house. He's the one who Talia told to call Deaton.

“There's no thinking about it,” He says, ruffling Laura's hair as he walks past, “It was obviously a coup. You should probably try to pay more attention, baby sis. Who knows if Derek, Cora and I won't be planning one against _you_ someday.”

Laura rolls her eyes at her brother's retreating form, makes a mocking face at his deep laugh, and shakes her head to clear the misplaced hair out of her face.

“Don't mind Tarik,” She huffs, “He's a gigantic asshole and he's only here for two more weeks before he goes back to school. _Thank god_!”

She shouts the last part toward the entryway of the kitchen. Stiles thinks he hears a muted “Fuck you” in response.

Stiles raises a judgmental eyebrow, “Really? Laura, Cora. Derek, Tarik.”

He really shouldn't be talking, considering the name his own mom gave him, but Jesus Christ. That has to be some form of child abuse.

Laura shrugs, “No one claimed our parents were exactly creative.”

“Don't think I didn't hear that,” A voice says, seconds before Talia steps out of the hallway and into the foyer.

Laura smiles sweetly, “Don't think it wasn't the truth.”

Talia crosses her arms in front of her chest elegantly, a smile so warm that Stiles feels is only reserved for her children on her lips. She jerks her chin toward the living room, “Don't think I can't smell that you haven't vacuumed the carpet yet. The deal was that you get the car tonight _only_ if you finish all of your chores.”

Stiles thinks he sees Laura's eyes flash yellow at the demand, but she lowers her head just as quick as they came.

She sighs, and when she looks back up her eyes are their normal brown. Stiles thinks her cheeks are a bit flushed, but she sounds normal and composed when she says, “You can wait in my room until I'm done, if you want Stiles.”

Talia watches Laura leave with the same fond smile on her face.

The vacuum turns on in the next room, and if Stiles listens close enough he can hear annoyed mumblings under the whirl.

Talia turns around and waves Stiles after her. He looks into the living room, shrugs at Laura's inquiring stare, and follows Talia down the hallway. She leads him to the study and Stiles sighs to himself, not knowing if he can really handle this after what he's just seen.

Derek's moan sounds in his ear and Stiles clenches his eyes shut, shaking his head as if to dislodge the noise.

Peter isn't in the room this time, thank god. Stiles feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease at that.

“Not that I disapprove of your friendship with Laura,” Talia says, handing him a pen and gesturing for him to draw his silencing rune on the wall, “But is there a reason you're here?”

Stiles takes the pen from her an draws his rune into the same place as before. The pencil marks are still there, only faded from the magic eating away at it. The pen will stay longer, he thinks.

“Mostly,” Stiles shrugs carefully. He puts the pen back on Talia's desk and sits in the same chair as last time, sighing, “Things are just kinda catching up with me I guess, and Laura's the closest thing I have to a friend here.”

She tilts her head to the side, “You and Derek aren't-?”

“No,” He cuts her off, shrugging, “No, uh, I can't really. Anytime we're in the same room I just keep thinking about my future? And everything we've been through together and how he doesn't know any of it. And it sucks. A lot.”

Talia leans forward, holding her arms across her desk. “Stiles,” She says with a frown, “Are you having any trouble sleeping? Exhausted? Fatigued?”

Stiles fiddles with the clasp on his big, listening to the magnet in the metal click together, “Um, a bit. But this is pretty stressful stuff, you know?” He scratches the back of his neck. “I'll get more sleep tonight,” He lies, knowing he'll stay up writing down more plans or reading more of Deaton's books, despite having read them all already.

Talia's eyes narrow at the lie, “Insomnia?” At his reluctant nod, she sighs, “Headaches? Nausea? Vomiting? A sense of doom, perhaps?”

“It's not a sense of doom,” Stiles corrects her, carefully avoiding admitting to those other symptoms, “It's more like... Like, I need to protect myself?” He looks away, starts playing with the clasp again, “Like I have a giant, open wound somewhere, and everyone's trying to tear it open more.”

Talia nods, looking troubled, “And the other symptoms?”

“I found Kate today. At the hospital,” Stiles says in a rush, not looking at Talia, “I-I followed her to a coffee shop-”

She cuts him off, voice hard, “Stiles, the other symptoms?”

His eyes snap back to hers, “I'm trying to tell you about your son.”

“And I'm trying to see if you're okay.”

It shocks a laugh out of him, because she sounds completely genuine about it. “Of course I'm not okay,” Stiles says, once he's calmed down. His words are bitter, and he wants to reach out and grab them and pull them back inside of him. “Everyone I love and know is gone and it's just me here and I'll _never see them again._ How the hell could I be okay with that?”

Talia sits back at the admission, but he opens his mouth before she can speak, “I know. I fucking know that it's not how the timeline is supposed to go, okay? I get it. And I just- I- It doesn't help, alright? Knowing that they weren't supposed to be that way at all? Telling me that doesn't help me when it's three o'clock in the morning and I fucking miss the hell out of them.

“It doesn't help when I see Derek and he won't even acknowledge me and it doesn't help when I see my dad and he looks at me like I'm a stranger and it doesn't fucking help when I see these twelve-year-old, helpless kids who are supposed to be my pack!”

Stiles looks down at his hands. He's wound them in the strap of his bag, hands fisted between the fabric like he's holding onto a life preserver.

“When I was twelve, I lost my mom. After that, I did everything I could to make sure my dad would live for as long as possible. I didn't care about a lot of people, okay? I had my dad, and I had Scott, and that was it. Those were my people. They were the only ones I let myself care about. And then, of course, Scott got bit, and introduced me to his little wolfy drama club, and suddenly that list? That list of people I would lay my life down for? It got bigger.

“I didn't want to lose any more family, but I've lost them all, and no one can _ever_ fucking understand that.”

No one except his Derek, but Stiles has lost him too. The reminder feels like every loss he's ever felt all at once. 

Talia seems a bit taken aback by his outburst. Stiles remembers years ago, when Morrell called him to her office; her expressionless face as he talked to her. He can't help but think of her now, of what she would tell him to do.

Morrell wouldn't tell him anything, though. She would let him find his own way to deal with things, and just be an ear for him to vent to. Stiles looks away again.

Talia doesn't seem to know what to say that, and Stiles doesn't blame her. Fuck. He sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. He pulls at the thick strands, the tug at his scalp making him feel better, somehow.

He takes pity on her, and says, “I got the pictures. Of Kate. I followed her to the coffee shop and she met Derek there.”

Talia's face sours at the news, but Stiles can still see that look in her eyes, like she's ready to hold him down and make him talk about his feelings again, so he barrels on, “It's enough to convict her, I think. I also have their text messages and pictures of her trunk. I could probably get them to my dad tomorrow.”

“And then this will all be over?” Talia asks, moving her hands as if to encompass what all of this is.

Stiles shrugs, “It should be. I still have to do a few more things, but I think after that... Everything should be as it good as I can make it.”

Talia leans over, closer to Stiles, and asks, voice soft, “What will happen to you? Does Alan have any ideas? Your mom?”

He looks down. “We, uh, haven't really talked about it. As far as I know, nothing like this has happened before. I could just fade from existence or maybe I'll get dropped in an alternate reality but...”

Stiles shakes his head. He's tried to not think about it since he decided to fix everything. Avoiding issues is easier than dealing with them, for him, and having to come to terms with the fact that he might just stop existing is, fuck, it's impossible.

“I'm scared,” He admits, and his voice shakes as he says it. “I'm really, really scared, Talia.”

A hand appears in his line of vision, and he watches, almost detached, as it grips his. Talia sits with him in silence for a few seconds, offering her support, before she whispers, “I'm scared too, Stiles. I've been- terrified ever since you told me what would happen to my family. I've had to stop myself from just running out and putting that woman in the ground more times than I can count. But you know why I haven't?”

A hand grips his chin, tilting his head up. There are tears in Talia's eyes as she says, “Because my son trusted you more than anything. You were his second in command, Stiles. We were able to smell it the second you entered our house a month ago. My son would have trusted you with this. Derek, your Derek, trusted you with everything. His pack, his life, and his safety. And I trust my son, so I trust you too.

“You're brave, Stiles. Braver than you know. I wouldn't have been able to do what you've been doing for these past few weeks. We'll work it out, alright? I promise. We'll take care of you.”

Stiles tries to swallow around the rock in his throat, but he can't so he just nods in acceptance of her words.

Talia's hand lets go of his chin to rest her hand over his heart, thumping rabbit quick under her palm, “You're pack, Stiles.”

She's kind enough to hold him while he cries.

* * *

 

Laura finds him, an hour later, sitting on her bed.

“Hey,” She says, as she goes over to her closet. She starts unbuttoning her shirt with one hand as she searches through the hangers with another, “You and mom have a good talk?”

Stiles shrugs and moves to get off her bed. After Stiles finally stopped crying, he told her about Peter and what he's done in his time. Talia had looked suitably troubled at the news, growling softly when he got the part about her killing Laura, pulled her teeth back in a snarl when he told her the truth about Paige.

He also told her about Duecalion and the alpha pack, and told her to trust this new alpha Morrell had sent. Stiles still isn't sure if she heard him over the obvious plotting she was doing in her head.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugs, “She said I was pack.”

Laura snorts as she slides her shirt off. Stiles is more than aware of werewolves and their weird thing with being nude, but looks out the window anyways. “Duh. You've always been pack.”

Stiles makes a face at the window, not that Laura can see, “I have?”

“Don't you remember when I dragged you to meet Derek? Me telling you that you smelled like pack wasn't me just blowing smoke up your ass. Weirdo. Maybe mom didn't feel it but you've always been pack to me. I mean, _after_ the whole thing where I kinda dragged your bleeding body to my car and threatened you. Whatever.”

Stiles chuckles at the memory, wondering how he and Laura got this point when only two months ago she'd been growling and almost accusing him of murdering her brother.

“You can turn around now, by the way. Prude.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but does, in fact, turn around. Laura's sitting on her bed, her phone in her hands, and Stiles' eyes zero in on her shirt.

It's a Harry Potter [shirt](http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/MTYwMFgxMjAw/z/-3wAAOxyshFRdxUg/%24T2eC16J,!wsE9suw\)0QBBRd\)Ufv37Q~~60_35.JPG&imgrefurl=http://www.ebay.com.au/itm/Official-Harry-Potter-DA-Dumbledores-Army-T-Shirt-Adult-M-Medium-Women-2007-/151033475125?pt%3DUS_Womens_Tshirts%26hash%3Ditem232a4bf035&h=300&w=225&sz=17&tbnid=dMSREU_g0qZ5kM:&tbnh=95&tbnw=71&zoom=1&usg=__gj7h4ewRjYl_-gLHdqZiS50CImI=&docid=sUPRtCGUoWHhAM&itg=1&sa=X&ei=zmWFUvWTCKXxigLqyoDoAQ&ved=0CC8Q9QEwAg), with D.A. stamped below Harry's body. Stiles raises an eyebrow at it.

“What?” She asks, looking at it, “Order of the Phoenix just came out last month, which you would have known if you hadn't spent three weeks avoiding me. Stop being all judgey with your future nerd cred.”

“I'm not judging. It's just- Dumbledore was kind of a dick?” Stiles shrugs, looking away, only to be hit by an object.

He spins around to see that Laura threw a pillow at him.

“Spoilers!” She hisses, “Deathly Hallows comes out tonight, asshole! I'm perfectly fine thinking that Dumbledore was a really nice old man who died an untimely death until midnight!”

“Oh, that's where you're going tonight?”

Laura picks up her phone again to resume texting, “Yeah, of course. Brad's going too. Hey, do you wanna come?”

Stiles has never actually been to a Harry Potter book release. He didn't get into the series until he was ten, and after that his mom got really sick, and by then it was too late. He bites his lip, because he really shouldn't but...

But he hasn't done anything he's really wanted to do in months, and it's his only chance to go.

“Sure,” Stiles says, “But, hey, do you have any mouthwash I could use?”  


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depersonalization in this chapter  
> also  
> i'm just gonna say it because i added it to the tags  
> i've been leaving hints around for a while that stiles is suffering heavily from PTSD/survivor's guilt and it's more apparent in these last few chapters I think? so  
> yeah  
> 

The line is packed all the way around the corner and it's not even nine o'clock yet.

So far, Stiles has spotted fourteen Hermione's, twelve Ron's, and twenty Harry's. He saw one Luna and high-fived them, because Luna is _awesome_.

Brad is actually a pretty cool guy. He shook Stiles' hand firmly when he met him, which was kinda weird but whatever. What does he know about the proper dude on dude greeting techniques on 2007? Not much, obviously.

Apparently, Laura's been talking about him while managing to not say much at all, since Brad knows 'a lot about' him. Stiles wonders when she's going to tell him about the werewolf thing, if she's ever going to because he doesn't remember his Derek ever mentioning his sister having a boyfriend in New York.

Laura obviously adores him, though. They've been touching all night, holding hands, resting heads on shoulders, even pressing their legs together as they sit on the cold sidewalk.

The group behind them intermingles their conversation with theirs sometimes, trading book theories and bemoaning the clock. Stiles tries to keep closed lip about what he knows, but it's hard when everyone's so completely off. This person down the row keeps spouting off Snape hate, and it really makes Stiles wanna follow her home and laugh in her face when she gets to _that_ part.

He tries to remember his own younger self and breathes deeply. It's going to be a long night.

There's a guy walking around dressed as Voldemort and Stiles really admires his balls.

Not his balls balls. His figurative balls. The balls that aren't attached to his- whatever. Stiles goes back to playing cards with Laura.

Brad was smart enough to bring a deck of cards, and Stiles feels a bit lost. He hadn't realized how heavily people relied on smart phones in his time, how people in a line like this in 2013 would be checking all sorts of websites for spoilers and pictures from people on the East coast.

“Got any threes?” Laura asks, fingernails clicking on the ground as she leans back.

“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles cheerily replies as he hands over his lonely three of spades.

Brad leans close to whisper above the cards, “I heard a rumor that Harry dies.”

Stiles promptly bites his tongue.

“That's stupid,” Laura says, knocking into Brad's shoulder, “He's the main character! If Harry dies, what kind of message would that send?”

“I don't know,” Brad shrugs, “Maybe Ron and Hermione and everyone else keep the good fight going and it's supposed to be, like, not losing hope in the face of death? Or something?”

Laura shakes her head, “Still stupid.”

“Still might be true.”

Laura flips her hair over her shoulder, and casually says, “I'm sorry, you have to be at least smarter than _that_ to date me.”

Brad smirks at her, “Yeah, yeah, alright. When we get this book and we find out that Harry does die, you'll be the one that's not smart enough to date me.”

Stiles continues shuffling his cards innocently and knocks his foot into Brad's, “Got any jacks?”

Brad shakes his head and Stiles pouts, drawing a card. He curses and shoves at Laura when he draws a three.

“I hate you,” He tells her with feeling, “I've been holding onto that since you _dealt_.”

Laura just cackles.

They continue on like that for another half hour, Laura and Brad breaking up over Harry's imminent death/not-death at least five times, before Stiles gets distracted.

Because, of course, everything can't be okay for more than a few minutes, right?

The sign is glowing in neon, cheerfully telling it's patrons about its lovely 24 hour service.

He bites his lip, eyes jumping from the car to the store before sighing.

“Let me borrow ten dollars,” He demands at Laura.

She makes a face at him and picks up another card, “What? No. Why?”

“Because it's very important,” He tells her sweetly, cocking his head slightly in Brad's direction, trying to convey how very important this important situation is with his eyes.

Laura just sighs, like Stiles doing things to save her family is a disruption to her, and buts her head at Brad's shoulder, “Pay the boy so I can continue beating your ass.”

Brad rolls his eyes but does as she says without question.

“Keep your kinky shit in the bedroom,” Stiles snarks at her. Laura flips him off.

He picks up Laura's keys from where she put them on the floor, because Laura doesn't believe in purses and her jeans have fake pockets, and sets off toward the car. They got here relatively early so they only had to park a block away, which was really lucky. He thinks he heard some people grumbling about walking all the way from the mall, which is four blocks away.

His bag is stored under the passenger side seat, hidden away from the windows and Laura and Brad. Stiles doesn't know when he got this paranoid. He doesn't like it.

He pulls out the disposable camera and turns it over in his hands, wondering if he's really going to do this.

He's been working toward this for weeks- months, even. Once he gets these developed, it'll become real. He still hasn't looked at the text transcripts. Part of him wants to, this burning need swelling in his chest to know for sure, but there's a bigger part, a part that makes his hands shake as he reaches for the thick envelope at the bottom of the bag that wants him to just forget he ever printed them out.

This morning feels so far away.

Stiles pinches the metal clasp open and pulls out the pages. He mentally prepares himself, tells himself that seeing Kate sticking her tongue down Derek's throat was worse than this.

His eyes immediately find the word “cock” and he shoves the papers back in, shaking his head. He can't do it, definitely can't do it, doesn't even want to think about doing it. He's not crossing this line, not like this.

God, his Derek would hate him. Stiles can feel it burning under his skin like an itch. His Derek would hate him for following him around like this, for printing out these text. This is such an invasion of privacy.

It's for the best though, right? The end outweighs the means?

Is that how it is now? He has to be pragmatic when it comes to Derek of all people?

What kind of life is Derek going to have when this gets out? God, he's probably going to have to testify. In a court of law. About his love affair with his teacher. Fuck. Stiles feels sick thinking about how Derek's going to feel, how betrayed he'll be.

Stiles hates this person he's become.

He presses the clasp back into the hole, wondering what his Derek would say to him about all of this. They've talked about it before- what life would be like if they could change things. Of course they did. Who hasn't? It's different in theory, though. Stiles remembers taking a shot of Vodka, shouting over the music droning from the crappy radio in Derek's living room that he'd spend every single second with his mom. Derek helped him to the toilet stall a few hours later and helped him aim his vomit into the toilet, quietly rubbing his back and whispering that he'd spend more time with his family.

He breathes in. He breathes out.

It doesn't matter now.

Except it does, because he can't stop hearing Derek telling him all about Kate in that calm, unattached voice on 4th of July. He presses his hands to his ears but the words keep spilling from Derek's lips, slithering through his mind like a snake.

It was different hearing about it. It was so different compared to seeing it.

There's a knock on the window and Stiles flails, shoving the envelope back into his bag.

He wants to groan at the sight of that fucking baby face. He so doesn't need this right now. Not today. Not after what he's just seen.

Stiles kicks the bag back under the seat and throws himself out of the car, smiling weakly at Derek.

“Hey,” He says, smiling that fucking smile that makes Stiles want to throw things at him, because it's so fucking fake and polite. Derek isn't supposed to smile like that. Derek's supposed to glare or just stare at you until you change topics. “Laura didn't tell me you were coming.”

“Last minute decision,” Stiles tells him, shoving the camera in his pocket, “Uh, look, I have to go do a thing but Laura and Brad are right around the corner. I can walk you there if you want?”

Derek makes a face and shakes his head, “They probably started sucking face as soon as you turned your back on them,” Stiles flinches at the words, remembering Kate dragging Derek into the alley, mouth pressed against his. Derek gives him an odd look, “I could go with you? If you want?”

The plastic of the camera is cool pressed against his hand, and Stiles runs his thumb over the side of it, hidden by his jacket pocket. Being around Derek right now is just _weird_ especially when he knows what he's been doing all day. It's not like he'd actually see the pictures, right? That's not how disposable cameras work.

Stiles shrugs and sets off walking down the street, Derek a silent shadow by his side.

“It's a time travel thing,” Stiles explains quietly, “So you can't ask questions, alright?”

“That's fine. How's that going, by the way? Mom doesn't really like to talk about it and Laura says you won't tell her anything.”

Stiles snorts, knocking his shoulder against Derek's. It's a normal thing for him to do, but he wonders if this Derek thinks it's weird. “What makes you think I'll tell you if I won't tell Laura? You haven't exactly been Mr. Talkative to me the past two months.”

“I've been busy,” Derek defends.

Stiles lets out a bitter laugh and nods, “Right. Yeah. Busy sucking face, dude.”

Time seems to stop as soon as the words escape his lips, and Stiles feels his heart drop at the light that brightens in Derek's eyes. _Fuck._

“So you know, right? I thought you would, I mean, since we're close in the future and all?”

Stiles' jaw clenches and he snaps, “I'm not talking to you about this, wolfbreath. Go hang out with Laura if you want to gossip about your love life. I have shit to do.”

He stalks off, anger thrumming deep in his bones, frustration making his hands itch to tug at his hair, when a hand grips his elbow.

Stiles stops, because it's Derek. It's supposed to be Derek, but it's not at all and something in him just feels so fucking wrong to think about it.

“I just,” Derek starts, clearing his throat, “I just want to know if she's there with me. In the future? Are we still together?”

Stiles' fist clench and his eyes snap shut, the marrow in his bones raging like it's on fire, blood fucking singing for him to push Derek, to hit him, to do something-

And he does. He spins around and shoves him, using every single ounce of anger he has. Derek's eyes are rounded and huge, and Stiles fucking hates them, fucking hates _him,_ this shitty version of Derek who's just so fucking stupid, and he shoves him again until he flops against the chain link fence.

“Really?” He hisses, and he knows his irises are glowing, knows his anger is getting out of control, but he's so tired of this. He's so fucking tired of everything, he's fucking done. “You're asking me that? Right now? Are you fucking stupid?”

Derek gapes, mouth falling open, and Stiles hates it because it makes him notice how his face is cleanly shaven, not even a hint of peach fuzz, and he wants to punch him. Stiles has never wanted to punch someone more in his entire life and he hates himself for it because this is Derek at his most vulnerable; the teenage boy in love.

He can't stop the words, doesn't even think about them before he's opening his mouth and saying, “Your girlfriend? She's fucking psychotic. Alright? Do you get that?”

Derek's eyes harden and he yells, “She's not psychotic-”

But Stiles just rams him into the gate harder, metal singing as it rattles. He doesn't know where this strength is coming from, doesn't even care, but he shoves him again and again and he wants to scream.

“She is!” Stiles tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a choke, “God, Derek, do you even know what you would say to yourself?”

Derek doesn't look up from the floor.

“Because I do. Because you've told me. Because I'm from _your_ fucking future, Derek, or did you just forget that?”

They stand there for a few minutes, chest heaving, and Stiles slowly slides away from Derek.

His hands ache from fisting them in Derek's shirt so tightly, and he stretches them out, listening to his bones crack. He leans against a lamppost, one leg propping him up, just trying to catch his breath. He rubs a hand along his forehead, collecting the sweat that's gathered there.

Today's been too much. He wants to crawl back to Deaton's and sleep for the next six years. He wants to wake up in his own time and find out that this was all some horrible dream. He wants everyone to jump out from behind the corner and tell him this was all an elaborate prank gone too far.

“I'm giving up so much here, Derek,” Stiles whispers into his hand. His eyelids feel heavy and his heart is going too fast.

Derek looks up suddenly, and Stiles can see that his eyes are wet. “Tell me,” He begs, “Please. I don't- I need to know, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head, Peter's warning sounding like an alarm in his ears, “You can't, Derek. Not yet. Please. I- I'll tell you as soon as it's safe, okay? I know it's shitty, but I can't tell you now. We have to follow the plan.”

He sees something behind Derek. There's a sharp noise, like a scream, and then a figure is running down the street. Her hair is white and up in a bun, and there's an old man, an old, bald man, chasing after her.

Something settles in Stiles' gut at the scene, because he knows that bald head.

“I have to go do something,” He says, hurriedly. He rips the camera and money from his pocket and shoves them at Derek, “I need you to take this to the camera place by the bookstore, okay? I'll be back soon. Just promise me you won't pick them up. I'll get them.”

Derek, looking like he's just been given the biggest case of whiplash, nods and accepts the items, cradling them in his hands.

Stiles takes a few long strides toward the end of the street and shouts over his shoulder, “I swear to god, Derek, if you pick up those pictures I'll put mountain ash in your Cheerios!”

He thinks he hears Derek laugh, but he's too busy running after the couple. He sees the end of a coat turn down another block and rushes after it, shucking up his shirt and slapping his speed rune. He takes off after them, running so fast that the wind hits his face like a slap.

There's an alley to his right, the hisses and whimpers leading him down it. His stomach clenches tight in anxiety as the noises grow louder.

Stiles is about to run around a corner when he hears a sickening slap that has him pausing. He presses his body flush against the wall and tries to control his breathing.

“You stupid-” A voice grunts, one that makes Stiles' jaw snap shut, before metal clatters against the brick wall. He peers around the corner, half his face exposed, and freezes at what he sees.

His instincts were right, it's Gerard. Why is it always Gerard?

He's holding a woman to the wall of an alley, forearm pressed against her throat, other hand poised in a fist. He punches her, her head flopping to the side, and Stiles flinches at the memory it invokes, of Gerard holding him down and raining blows upon his own face.

“You're going to murder them!” The woman yells back in an angry whisper as soon as she has her bearings. Her lip's split, and a bit of blood dribbles down her chin, “I am still the matriarch of this family and you do not have the right to go over me like this!”

Stiles feels frozen as Gerard pulls back to punch the woman in the stomach, and she grunts in pain. Stiles sees her eyes clench tight.

“My daughter is the matriarch,” Gerard says, and Stiles' blood runs cold as his hand reaches for his pocket, pulls a thick knife out of a sheath on his side. “And you, my beloved, are nothing but an old, sympathizing, hag!”

There's a fear in her eyes and Stiles doesn't understand what's going on, what's happening, but he can't just stand here and watch this, watch Gerard kill another person.

It's the same plan, he thinks as he feels the wind pick up, just a different outcome.

Gerard rears back to jab the blade into the woman's side just as Stiles throws him back.

He flies like a rag doll caught in a child's grip and cracks against the opposing wall with a snap. Stiles feels nothing as he sees Gerard’s head bounce against the brick wall when he walks around the corner. He feels weirdly calm as the old man falls to the ground, unattached as blood trickles out of a cut on his temple.

It's like he's watching someone else step closer to Gerard, like he's standing at the mouth of the alley while his doppelganger crouches down to check the old man's pulse. His face is blank and he feels the thump of a heart under fingertips that don't feel like his. He watches as he stands and kicks Gerard in the gut.

He does it again, and again, and again, and Stiles is just watching himself do this, just standing here and he can't stop it, doesn't actually want to stop it, and he kicks again and again and again but he can't feel anything and his face is blank and the woman might be crying, he can't tell, can't hear anything-

There's blood coming out of Gerard's mouth now, dribbling down his cheek and hitting the floor like water under a slightly open facet.

His body crouches down to check the pulse again- still going strong.

There's a ringing in his ears where noise should be, little sounds like cars driving down the street, dogs barking, the woman shoving him into a wall and screaming in his face.

It comes back to him, slowly, awareness trickling back into his body, like his personality is being poured back into himself. There's a tingling in his hands and his foot feels like it's just been repeatedly bashed against a hard object.

“-at were you thinking? He could have killed you! And what if I didn't know about you Wicca boys,” His eyes harden at the slur, “Huh? Do you think that seeing you using your wind powers against my husband would have helped with my shock!?” She points a stern finger at him and shakes her head, “You kids these days. When I was younger we had to take precautions about this sort of thing, why, young sparks weren't even allowed to use their gifts unless their mentors were present!”

Stiles fights the urge to ask her what's going on, because he really doesn't think it'll help the way she's looking at him right now. He see's Gerard laying on the ground, wonders if that really even happened, _if he really did that_.

His head is pounding.

“Can you just, maybe, give me a minute to catch up?” Stiles asks her, his voice wobbling in the middle, and the woman seems to just shut down at his plea.

Her eyes soften and she steps back to look him over, and she sighs, “I suppose I may be in shock after all. Forgive me, I should be thanking you.”

Gerard's body is just there, like it's glaring at him. She's thanking him for doing this? For whatever just happened to him?

He wants to slide down the wall, wants to put his head in his hands and ice it because it fucking hurts, wants to think through whatever the fuck just happened and how he's going to deal with it.

Stiles really just wants to fucking sleep without having to worry about this shit.

“I'm sorry?” He tries, because she's looking at him and won't stop looking at him and Gerard is just lying there.

“It's fine,” She says rubbing her hands together. Is it cold? Stiles can't tell, can't feel anything beyond the nausea in his gut and the tingling in his hands. “He was going to kill me, the useless man. Couldn't even do that right. You look familiar, boy. Have we met before?”

Stiles shrugs, but he can see her face in his mind, standing outside the hospital, encouraging him to go see his mom. How many times has he unknowingly passed by an Argent? Gerard was getting treatment down the hall from his mother and he never had a clue. Kate was hanging out with Derek that day. How close had he been to running into her on his way out the door?

Stiles shudders, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hears Gerard's voice scream _“Kill them all!”_

“Are you going to be okay?” Stiles asks, because it seems like the right thing to say and he doesn't want to be here right now, doesn't want to be anywhere right now. Existing like this isn't worth it, he thinks. He wants to pull that timekeep back and force it to make him just go away.

“Violence is apart of my life, Wicca boy. I'll be fine. But _you_ look a bit shaken up. Is everything alright?” She tries to step closer, but Stiles can't stop comparing her features to Kate as she steps into the light. How many people has she killed? How many werewolves has she wrongly hunted in the name of the code?

Stiles remembers Gerard calling her a sympathizer, but he doesn't know what that means when compared to Gerard's genocide jerk off fantasies.

“I'm fine,” He snaps, voice rough. He feels drained. Is laying down to sleep after you saved someone's life rude? Probably.

The woman laughs, “Yes, I'm sure you are. Get out of here, boy. I'll call the police and tell them we've been mugged by a group of hoodlums.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and jerks his chin towards Gerard, not actually looking at him, “You're going to save him?”

“If only to kill him myself,” She says easily. Yep, all Argent’s are insane. It's a thing.

Stiles wonders what Allison would do to someone if they unsuccessfully tried to kill her. It spreads an ache through his chest, thinking about her and her ring daggers. Hell has nothing on Argent women.

Speaking of Argent women.

“Don't you have, like, a life debt to me or something now?” Stiles asks, bullshitting as he shakes his hands out. The pins and needles feeling is ebbing away now, which makes him breathe a sigh of relief. His headache is still there, but it's tolerable. He'll take an Advil later.

“Too much television rots the brain, dearie,” She tells him cheerily as she rummages through her purse. “But, I suppose I can give you a favor, since you did save my life. Don't get a big head, though. I could have taken him had he not blindsided me and I left my handgun at home. 'Just a night out at the movies, Melanie!' he had said, 'Leave your weapons at home!' he said.”

She snorts, and Stiles hears her mutter about men under her breath.

Stiles clears his throat to get her attention back to him, “Look, I need you to not hunt the Hales anymore.”

“The Hales weren't even on my radar. I didn't know there was even a hunt in place until five minutes ago,” Melanie tells him as she pulls out her phone. Stiles is mildly annoyed to find that it's better than his. “They're more human than most packs I'm on good terms with. We were supposed to just come here to talk to my husband's doctor.”

Stiles tries very hard to not brain himself against the wall.

“They've been on Gerard and Kate's radar for a while now,” He sighs, wondering why it was so easy for Gerard to just go against his matriarch, and then turn around and preach about it to Allison. Why hadn't Kate stepped up when Gerard killed Melanie? Why didn't Victoria or any other Argent woman? How the hell was he allowed to call the shots for so long?

“And just how do you know that?” She asks, squinting her eyes at him.

It never gets easier to say, but he has to, because he needs an ally with the Argents and the only one he has is twelve years old and _doesn't know who he is_.

Stiles' mind flashes to him shouting in Derek's face, and he grits his teeth as he tells her, “Because I'm from the future.”

Melanie's phone promptly snaps shut, and Stiles has a few seconds to feel envy over the flip phone before the old woman is taking a step back, a critical look in her eyes.

The problem with Melanie is that she looks so much like Kate, except her eyes. Her eyes are the same color and shape as Allison's, and the way they squint to analyze his body like an X ray makes a hollow feeling dig itself into his gut. He's seen Allison tear apart someone's motives with her eyes before, looking at a persons hands and face and eyes and everything about them to see if something is off.

It's why she was always the one to do interrogations. Her and Lydia could make someone confess to an ulterior motive in five minutes flat.

After a minute, Melanie sighs, “You know, boy, when you live in this life for so long, you start to just accept things as they come at you. When I was a young girl, my parents moved here from France. I'd heard all sorts of rumors about beast that bump in the night, like any child does, but even that little girl could never believe so many of the things I know to be truth these days. Only a few months ago I oversaw a treaty between a centaur herd and a fairy court.”

Stiles winces in sympathy. That must have been hell to negotiate. Two stubborn creatures and you have territory involved? It must have been horrible.

Stiles really doesn't regret saving Melanie Argent. Not if she can coral centaur and fae into agreeing with each other.

“Tell me what you can,” She orders him, arms tightening at her sides and legs shifting into a more stable stance, sliding into the Argent matriarch as easily as a glove.

Stiles really appreciates that she said “can” instead of “everything”. He tells her about the Hale fire and Kate's history with Derek. His bag is back at Laura's car, but he warns her what he's going to do with her. Melanie nods, as if accepting her daughter's fate.

He glosses over Gerard and the kanima and the mountain ash, packing all of the gore and death and manipulation into a neat little package. Melanie stands stone faced and silent through it all. She smiles a little when he tells her about Allison, about how strong and resilient she is now, about her new code, and he sees her mouth move to repeat the words in awe, as if she never thought about them. Stiles wants nothing more than to find Allison and tell her about this grandma, about the respect and adoration he sees when he talks about her.

Her eyes harden when he starts explaining timekeeps.

“They can manipulate time and stuff if someone makes a deal with them,” Stiles tells her, “I think someone made a huge deal around this time because when I summoned the timekeep, they said this year is supposed to be fixed point in time.”

Melanie stiffens at the words, “What do you mean by deals?”

Stiles shrugs, “Timekeeps are just made out of the stuff between universes, so they're like just a pitch black shape. My mom said that you give them control of your body for a while, depending on how big the deal is, so they can manipulate history or make sure things are going like they're supposed to.”

Her mouth drops open in realization, and a bit of horror, and she pulls on the claps to her purse so hard that Stiles thinks it breaks. She pulls out her wallet, dropping the black bag to the ground, and says, “I found this in my daughters room months ago, hidden in a book. I thought it was just something they did at the fair- I didn't know-”

Stiles gently takes it from her, stomach sinking in dread.

He's looking at a black and white picture of his pradziadek, holding hands with a woman who looks suspiciously like Kate Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pradziadek - great grandfather


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay hi so I suck and I'm the worst and I have absolutely no idea what happened these past two months?? I was totally cool around Thanksgiving like, “Oh hell yeah I'll update today sure why not I should be finished with this fic before New Years at the way I'm going” and then I got a plot bunny for a allyderica fic?? and was encouraged to write that by some very persuasive ladies and then I hit a road block with that and then wow I was dragged through the trenches of allydia hardcore and am now working on an allydia au on the side and I just suck I am the worst I am so so so so so sorry guys ugh but wow A++ on you all for keeping going and asking me if i'll update and commenting that if I have a soul i'd update I really appreciate all the little nudges and shoves to get me to update this you're all magical little fairies who aren't evil and I appreciate every single one of you <3
> 
> now i'm going to do a recap so you don't have to go back and read a few chapters (bc who likes reading right not any of us ew) BUT JUST SO YOU ALL REMEMBER: THIS CHAPTER AND CHAPTERS 13:12+ TAKE PLACE ALL ON THE SAME DAY SO YEAH i'm horrible at time management did you know that??
> 
>  
> 
> [!!!!!!READ A RECAP OF THE LAST FEW CHAPTERS HERE!!!!!!](http://the-candy-van.tumblr.com/post/75413302015/recap-holla)

Stiles' hands shake, blurring and crumpling the impossible picture in his hands. A cold sweat breaks out along his hairline, prickling between his shoulder blades. His throat tightens, and he isn't sure if there's a laugh or a sob building, tightening almost painfully, in his chest.

His life is a horribly timed joke.

He can't stop looking at his pradziadek's face, at the nose they share, at the way his hand rest ever so sweetly around Kate Argent's waist.

“ _Your pradziadek is the special case,”_ He can hear his mother's voice faintly in his mind, _“He actually fell in love with one, did you know? Almost proposed to it, too.”_

Stiles' heart clenches painfully in his chest, stomach tightening. Why didn't he see it? Why was he so blind?

Melanie is watching him like she isn't sure if he's having a psychotic breakdown or not. He thinks her hand is too close to her pocket for comfort, though, and tries to pull himself together. It's especially hard after the day he's had.

He just wants to give all of this information to Deaton or Talia and sleep for five hundred years. He doesn't want to deal with this anymore, but his hand is shaking and the picture still exist and he feels like he can't breathe. This is all too real now, it's all brimming over the edge and he can't hold it together.

Stiles knows it is, but he has to ask anyway. His voice is hollow when he asks her, “Are you sure this is real?”

He isn't even sure if he's asking about the picture anymore, but Melanie just raises an eyebrow, “I think, by the look on your face, you already know for sure.”

There are sirens in the distance. Stiles vaguely wonders if Laura or Derek will be concerned for him. Part of him, the part that can't feel his legs, thinks _someone_ should at this point.

Melanie looks to the mouth of the alley and back to Gerard, sighing, “Some nosy neighbor seems to have reported a crime. Get out of here, boy. Stop my daughter from whatever she and my idiot husband were planning.”

The sirens get closer, the noise ricocheting off the empty streets like drums. Stiles has a second of intense fear at the thought of seeing his dad, of being caught here by the person who looked in his eyes and didn't recognize him, and he runs, the picture still crumbled tight in his grip.

He doesn't turn around to see the look of pity Melanie gives him, but he feels it all the same.

The picture practically burns his hand like a brand, and he turns it over as he runs, looking at it, hating its very existence.

His mom said that if someone made a deal with a timekeep, that the timekeep would use their body to go throughout the timeline. The timekeep that sent him back made a bad deal that messed with the timeline that messed things up badly enough that the timekeep had tried to kill his entire pack to get rid of the evidence.

Is this just a coincidence? Is the timekeep that sent him back and the timekeep that made a deal with Kate Argent the same?

There's a tightening in his gut. Everything is too close to be a coincidence. Kate would never make a deal for anything good, so of course she's the reason he's back here.

Kate Argent.

Why do all of his problems seem to go back to her?

He remembers the calender on Deaton's wall. The two red circles; his own little countdown for the new moon and the full moon. Stiles could wait. He could bide his time, stalk Argent. He could take her down with the word of the law, be the sheriff's son he always has been.

Or, he could kill her.

He could kill her tonight and end all of this.

Stiles tingles at the thought. He wants to slit her throat, wants her blood on his hands right now. Nothing sounds sweeter or simpler. He imagines claws growing where his nails are, imagines them shiny and sharp and deadly, imagines them ripping into the fragile skin of Kate's throat and looking into her eyes as she stops breathing.

All the pain she's caused? All the death and destruction? It would be gone. It would all just disappear. Allison would never know the aunt she held in such high regard was actually a psychopath. Derek would never have to know the pain of losing his family, his pack. He'd stop falling into bed with the enemy. He'd stop blaming himself for everything wrong in the world. The entire Hale clan would live to see another day. Peter wouldn't have the excuse to be the town wackjob and murder everyone involved with the fire. Jackson and Lydia would be safe in their perfect bubble.

Scott would be happy. He'd be happy and normal and nobody again.

And Stiles?

Stiles imagines any version of him would be better then the one he is now.

It's that thought that sends a shock to his system, heart thumping maddeningly in his chest. His lungs are on fire, chest constricting painfully as his breathing falters. His head feels three sizes too big for his body, and he stumbles into a wall.

No. No, he can't be having a panic attack right now.

But he is.

His hands scrabble along the stone and mortar, fighting feebly for something to hold onto to anchor him to the Earth, but his hands slide uselessly like butter and he falls, crashing to the floor like he was dropped from the sky. His head cracks against the concrete, but he hardly feels it over the stalemate in his chest, his lungs locking up and his throat stubbornly sealed like a vault.

He can't breathe.

He's underwater, but he's not even fighting to the surface. It's like he's trapped in seaweed, just watching as waves crash against the shore over his head. It's peaceful down here. Peaceful and empty. Sun shines bright in his eyes overhead, drowned out from the murky water.

Stiles isn't sure if he should open his mouth and let the salt water burn his throat or not.

He could stay underwater forever. He could let the seaweed hold him captive, could let his eyes slip shut and listen to the waves crash. He could let the tide hit the beach while he just lays here and lets the water take over him.

It's what he's going to do, until he hears it.

“Stiles!”

“Stiles, wake up!”

“Derek, he's not breathing!”

“Wake up!”

Derek. A thousand thoughts fly through his head at that one name. The waves are harsher on the surface, but something posses him to pull, to tugs on the seaweed viciously until it snaps and lets him go. He fights to the top, kicking and thrashing.

His lungs open, the vault on unlocks, and Stiles _breathes_.

Everything slides into awareness slowly. There are hands on his face, slapping his cheeks lightly. There's another on his throat, checking his pulse. He can hear muted voices warbling in tones that hurt his ears, and he groans.

His heart is still going too fast, but the hand pulls away.

“Oh my god!” A voice says, “Stiles! Stiles, open your eyes, okay?”

He does, feeling like someone is pounding nails behind his eyelids.

Laura's in front of him, eyes pinched in worry. She's straddling his lap, holding his head against the wall. There are two more bodies, but Laura takes up his field of vision.

Stiles feels like he should be coughing up sea water. His lungs burn, like he's holding it in, like his chest is a cup of salt water, but Beacon Hills is forty minutes from the beach.

Laura pulls back just as Stiles swallows something sliding up his throat. No. Not vomiting. Not again.

“I-” He tries to start, but his throat feels rough and he coughs. His chest moves like he can't catch a breath, and he wonders if his panic attack is really over or not.

“Shh,” Laura demands, and someone hands her a white gauze pad and a packet of something. She squeezes it on and gently taps it at his forehead. Stiles hisses at the burn, but she just makes a face at him. “Don't be a baby.”

“Says the supernaturally healing werewolf,” He manages to say, but it comes out in a feeble whisper.

Laura's lips crack in a smile and she laughs, but it comes out more like a choke than anything. Stiles thinks her brown eyes are wet with tears, but he can't be sure. The streetlamp doesn't offer much light.

She pulls her arm back and he sees blood on the pad. He faintly remembers hitting his head on something but fights the urge to touch it. Laura looks like she'd bite his arm off if he tried.

“He doing okay?” Someone asks.

Stiles peaks over Laura's shoulder to see Brad and Derek huddled close behind Laura. Brad's looking at him like he's going to spontaneously die, but Derek looks... distracted.

He's looking down at his hand, and Stiles feels sick but he can't even gather the energy to work himself up into a panic attack again.

“It's not what you think,” Stiles says, but it sounds weak.

Laura raises an eyebrow at him and follows where he's looking. She moves just enough so that he can see the picture in Derek's hand, the one he was holding when he fell, the one that has Kate Argent's body and his great grandfather standing side by side.

A selfish part of him, the part that Stiles actively hates, thinks of this as a good thing. That Derek will know to stay away from Kate, that Laura will tell Talia, that the alpha will deal with everything. But Stiles' life doesn't work that way, nothing ever gets wrapped up nice and neat in a little bow, so he struggles forward, needing to get the picture away from Derek _now_.

Derek's head is shaking back and forth, “I...”

“It's not what you think,” Stiles tries again. His head is pounding.

Laura slides off of him and rest next to him, looking between Stiles and Derek with a look he can't decipher. Her face is pinched, and she quickly pulls the picture from Derek's slack hands.

Her eyes squint as she stares at the picture, but it's meaningless to her. She hasn't met Kate Argent. She doesn't know who the man next to her is. Stiles grabs the picture from her and folds it, wanting to rip it and toss it down the storm drain, but it's his only reminder that this is real, his only proof that this is still horribly wrong.

Derek's eyes flash blue and Brad falls back to the floor just as Derek lets out a rumbling growl. He squawks and Laura jumps to help him, but Brad pulls away from her, eyes widening in distress.

“Derek,” Stiles tries, eyes focused on the raging man in front of him, “Derek, no, stop, alright? Let me explain!”

Derek just growls again, narrowing his angry blue eyes into slits at Stiles.

“Stop lying!” He growls, voice distorted. Stiles sees his hands form fist, sees a jagged claw creeping out. “Since you got here, all anyone has done is lie to me!”

Laura flinches back at the hurt and betrayal in her brother's voice, and Stiles is struck again, wondering just what the Hales told Derek, if they told him everything or just the minimum. Derek wasn't there when Stiles plopped into existence. He was at swim practice, and after? Stiles avoided being around Derek like the plague.

Stiles looks between Laura and Derek, wondering just how much Derek knew before tonight.

Laura shakes her head, “Derek, that's not true-”

“I can hear your heartbeat, Laura,” Derek snaps.

Laura opens her mouth to reply but Stiles cuts her off, demanding, “Then listen to mine, Derek,” He takes a deep breath, willing his hummingbird heart to slow, “I didn't know about that picture until a few minutes ago.”

There's a snarl and then Derek is gone, running down the empty street on four legs, jumping from cars to roofs and bounding out of sight. Stiles' stomach tightens just as Laura growls and charges, chasing her brother with a threatening howl that pierces through the night.

Stiles watches until she's out of view, wondering if his heart stuttered or not.

Because Stiles wasn't lying about the picture, but he knew about Kate. He's known about Kate and what she would do to Derek for weeks. He isn't sure if he reeks of guilt or if Derek had just known, instinctively, that he was holding something back.

It's not like their earlier talk made this one any easier.

Stiles' eyes shut, picturing the way he'd slammed Derek against the gate, the way he'd screamed in his face about Kate and about their future and how stupid everything is.

“Wh-what was that?” Brad asks, eyes wide and voice quivering. He looks pale, like Lydia did after the alpha attacked her and Jackson outside the video store. “Stiles? Why did my girlfriend just drop to all fours and jump over a building?"

Stiles looks at the building Laura and Derek jumped over and back to Brad. He really doesn't know how to explain any of this, and he has way bigger things to worry about right now. Peter's voice is whispering in his ear, about Derek spurring Kate into action.

He stands on shaky legs, using the building to support himself. He thinks the photography store is only a street away.

Stiles may be an asshole for it, but he leaves Brad laying on the sidewalk, shaking like a leaf, asking only the sky if he's crazy. Laura can kill him for it after he's put Kate Argent in the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a panic attack in this chapter
> 
> (also please note Stiles is not in his right state of mind and actually hasn't been for a while~*~)
> 
> i think we all know what pradziadek means at this point, but just in case
> 
> pradziadek - great grandfather.


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a dick i am so sorry here you go

The camera shop is open, neon twenty four hour sign taunting him with its mere existence. Stiles eyes it, sighing.

The street is empty, making him wonder what time it is. He couldn't have possibly been gone for more than an hour, but it's too quiet out and the bookshop is closed. He wonders if Laura and the others even got their books, or if Derek and Laura got worried for him and went looking.

Stiles looks up at the roof of the buildings, squinting as if he can catch a glimpse of a werewolf having a temper tantrum.

He takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs expanding in his chest like an ache, and pushes his way into the store.

A bell dings as the door opens. There's smooth jazz playing over the radio and Stiles makes a face at it, forehead twitching painfully as it tugs at the cut on his eyebrow. He presses a hand to it, wishing for a mirror to make sure he doesn't look like he was just attacked or something.

There's a noise, something being dropped, an 'oomph', and then a frazzled looking young man appears behind the counter, smiling sheepishly.

“I,” He starts, “Uh, sorry! We don't normally get people in this late!”

He gestures weakly behind him and Stiles sees a clock framed on the wall. He frowns at the time, one am, and steps closer to the counter.

Where did all the time go? How long was he with Melanie? Was he just laying on the floor for two hours, struggling to breathe, before Laura and the others found him?

“Rush order,” Stiles shrugs in explanation, ignoring the way the man is looking at his forehead. “My friend came in here earlier to drop off my camera?”

A look comes over the man's eyes as he sighs. He steps back from the counter and toward a machine that whirrs and buzzes. Next to it, there's a box with holders in it ranging from A to Z. His fingers flitter over to the H section and he pulls out the only packet in it.

“I don't know what's going on,” the man says, “Or why the content of these pictures is so... disturbing, but I want no part in it. If you or your friend comes in this store again, with pictures like these, then I'm going to have to call the police.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the man as he reaches for the pictures. Once they're in his, thankfully steady, hands, Stiles doesn't say anything. He flips open the flap and slides the glossy pictures into his hand.

They're there, exactly as he took them. Kate and Derek sitting close, Kate leaning into Derek's space, Kate and Derek kissing. Stiles feels sick again just looking at them.

He shakes his head, disgusted. Derek's face flashes in his mind, the hurt and betrayal that was there only a few minutes ago before he ran away.

Stiles' Derek has never looked at him like that, like he upset the careful balance of the world. Stiles' Derek always looked at him as if he could make the world right again, like Stiles could fix it.

Stiles' jaw clenches as he nods to himself, because he's going to fix it. He's going to fix the world for Derek, he's going to set everything right.

“Is it legal to look at the pictures you print?” Stiles asks distractedly, “I've always wondered.”

Stiles shoves the pictures back in the envelope, folds the top with a bit more force than necessary and turns without waiting for a response.

The car is where Stiles left it, three Harry Potter books piled in the front seat. Stiles' stomach flips in guilt for ruining this night for Laura, remembering how excited she was earlier. He pushes it down though, ignores it in favor of putting the pictures in the envelope and starting the car.

It's when he turns on the ignition that it hits Stiles, that he has enough information to take down Kate Argent. He's done what he planned, has everything put together, but there are so many ways for this to play out that it leaves his chest hurting.

Stiles has never killed before, for as much blood lust in his veins he's always had Scott there to keep him level headed. Scott, who wanted nothing more than to stop the constant fighting, to seek peace and keep everyone safe, and Stiles' heart hurts as he thinks of his brother.

Scott would do the right thing, but which option is the right thing in this case? According to Scott, it would be the one with the least amount of causalities. 

But what if something goes wrong at the trial? What if Kate spins a story about Derek helping her plan the murder? What if the Argent's have enough money to bribe someone in the court room? What if what Stiles has isn't enough and Kate walks free? What if-

There are too many scenarios burning in Stiles' mind. He reaches into his bag for his cellphone, dials the number to the hospital with a long ago ingrained muscle memory.

Claudia will know what to do, he assures himself, except no one answers his call.

Stiles checks the time on the dashboard, frowning when he sees it's one in the morning. His mom's a light sleeper though, the phone should have woken her up. Stiles calls again and gets the same response as last time.

He doesn't think too much of it, sometimes his mom would ask for morphine on the tough days, and puts it out of his mind.

Stiles calls Deaton and isn't surprised when the man answers on the second ring.

“Stiles,” he greets, voice thick with sleep, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need advice,” Stiles says, clutching the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulls out of the parking space.

He passes Brad down the street, still staring up at the sky like his entire life is a big question mark. Stiles' stomach swims with guilt but he ignores it. Laura can deal with her own goddamn boyfriend.

Stiles blurts, voice only a bit hysterical, “Look, today has been the day of hell, okay? I finally got the text message transcript, I got my rune powers back from some mysterious coven lady who, honestly, I'm still not sure isn't out to kill me, I may have let the magic bomb drop on this version of me, but hey, it's not my fault right, kid's me. He had to have figured it out sometime, okay? Oh, and I tracked Kate and Derek to some stupid fucking cafe and got pictures of them making googly eyes at each other. Then Talia and Laura had to tell me that I'm _pack,_ which, thanks for the support but also the added guilt trip plus pressure combo, y'know? And,” Stiles laughs, sounds more like a panicking intake of air if he's being honest with himself, “Guess what else? I managed to put Gerard Argent in a coma, make a truce with the current Argent matriarch, find out that Kate Argent made a fucking deal with a fucking timekeep and, on top of everything, I traumatized poor Brad!”

“Brad?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the phone, “Not really the point of that.”

“Sounds like you've had a rather interesting day Mr. Stilinksi. I, on the other hand, had the rather unglamorous job of checking a dog for tapeworm.” Deaton drolls.

Stiles makes a disgusted noise, “I really didn't need to hear that.”

There's a beat of silence, then, “Oh, I'm sorry, were we not sharing the details of our days?”

“Don't be a dick, Alan, it doesn't suit you.”

“Look, Stiles, this is what comes with the territory. As Derek's emissary, you took on responsibilities like this. I thought you had understood that at this point. Things get hectic, people get hurt, but it is always for the greater good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “I didn't really call you for a pep talk, dude. And, by the way, you're horrible at them. Duly noted.”

There's a rustle on the end of the line and Stiles pictures Deaton shrugging carelessly, “It's one o'clock in the morning, Stiles. What do you need? Also, are you coming home soon? I'm technically responsible for you, I believe.”

“I just,” Stiles sighs, looks around at the street signs as if they hold the answers to his problems, “I need you to tell me what to do. What's the right choice? About Kate? You never told me what you thought about it.”

Deaton makes a considering noise, his voice seems to take a more serious tone as he says, “Is there ever really a right choice, Stiles? For us, there isn't. As emissary's, our jobs are to keep balance. Keeping balance doesn't always mean doing the right thing for yourself or just one person, though,” Stiles thinks of Morrell, of how she killed her alpha without a second thought, “It means doing what's best for all. You can't be a lawful good, not in this life. You have to see the whole board, Stiles, try to look and see how it affects every player. Then, you'll have your answer.”

Stiles whines, low in his throat, “That's not an actual answer.”

Deaton hums, “No, I suppose it's not, but it's the one you need. Whatever option you pick, Stiles, I just want you to know that I'm proud of you either way.”

Deaton ends the call, leaving Stiles feeling more confused than ever.

He spends the rest of the drive running over the board in his mind, looking at it from all vantage points, trying to find any weak spots or angles. To kill or not to kill, that is the question. He sends out his pawns, but the other side has just as many to protect it.

When Stiles pulls up to the apartment, he still doesn't have an answer.

It's warm inside, couch calling to him like a beacon. Stiles tugs off his shoes, letting out a languid sigh. He's never been this excited to sleep in life, body begging him to just lay down and rest.

He still has something he needs to take care of first, because Stiles likes to procrastinate things even if they're things he really wants to do. It's an affect of the ADHD, he thinks.

There's a plate of spaghetti sitting on the counter with saran wrap over it and Stiles' mouth waters as he sees it. He scoops a bite, sending a mental huge thank you to Deaton for seriously being the best person in the universe. Stiles still doesn't know what he would have done had the veterinarian not taken him in. Would he be staying that the Hale house in their spare bedroom? Would he have cracked and begged Derek to stop seeing Kate?

He thinks of the timekeep and wonders if another alternate-alternate time line if that had been the case.

Stiles washes off his plate, and the left over pots in the sink, dammit Alan, and puts them away before getting down to it.

There's another envelope in the table drawer and he writes in thick sharpie “TO: BEACON HILLS DEPUTY STILINSKI” on the side of it, because he seriously can't just walk up and hand them an envelope with “important time travel business!!!” on the side and be expected to be taken seriously.

Stiles doesn't even know yet if he's going to turn Kate in or not, the question looming along the horizon ominously, but it's nice to be prepared. Maybe tomorrow he'll talk to Talia about what he should do, but he remembers their talk earlier and isn't too sure she won't just tell him to go for the throat.

He remembers Deaton telling him to keep balance, and sighs to himself. Is killing Kate keeping balance? Morrell killed to keep balance. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Scott wonders if there's a better option.

Stiles kinda wants to go find this time line's version of him and beg him to not become an emissary. Spark? Fine, go for it, play with runes and elements to his hearts content. But emissary? Nah, too much thinking required.

It's an option to explore, certainly.

He transfers the texting transcripts and the photos into one folder without looking at them too hard, stomach squirming at just the memories they invoke. The only thing that keeps him calm is the knowledge that Kate will pay soon, hopefully. No matter which option Stiles chooses, at least she'll pay.

It's that thought that comforts him as he shrugs out of his flannel. It's fine, he tells himself, he'll go to bed, and when he wakes up, the solution will be obvious.

Stiles can dream, can't he?

Just as he's about to tug off the rest of his clothes, his phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. Stiles considers ignoring it, it can't be anything good at almost two in the morning and he's bone tired, but Stiles checks it anyway.

He grins at the hospital number and answers with a, “Hey mom.”

Only it's not his mom who answers.

“Stiles, Stiles I-I don't know what to do!” Little Stiles said, and damn, Stiles felt with him. Do all Stiles' feel the same confusion across the time lines? He'd have to ask someone someday. “Mom, I- there was a loud beeping and they made me leave the room.”

Stiles stomach plummets to the floor at that, panic instantly rising from where he had hidden it, “No, what- what are you talking about, kiddo?”

His heart races as young him says, “I was staying with her! Because dad has the night shift and Scott and Melissa are the only one's who'll let me stay over on a school night but they went to visit Scott's abuela and, and mom said it'd be okay if I stayed with her and t-then there was this loud beeping and her eyes were closed and, Stiles I killed her, Stiles I killed mom I-”

Stiles throat constricts but he rushes, “No, hey no, kid don't do that okay? Mom's not dying, that's, she doesn't die until October I-”

If anything, that does nothing to calm himself down and Stiles winces at the panting, and he realizes that young him is having a panic attack. He forces off his own fear, the one squeezing his rib cage around tight his heart, and tries to make his voice sound reassuring and firm, like his dad, but only coming out desperate, “Stiles? Stiles, I need you to breathe, okay? Come on, count with me. Can you do that? Three breaths in and one long one out okay?”

He hears the shaky intakes of breaths and something that sounds like a sob, “Stiles please, Stiles come save her!” Little him demands, voice shaking and wet and Stiles' entire body goes limp at the words, “Please, use your magic!”

“I won't need to use it, okay bud?” Stiles says, “She's not dying, alright? I swear, she's going to be okay-”

“In your time she was!” Little him shouts, full of anger and fury and pain, “You came back here and you started changing everything- what if you changed this too?”

Stiles knows that's just the panic talking, knows that he would say anything right now, but it cuts him deep and he blanks, trying to look and see if he did anything that could have-

There's more sobbing, noises rushing in his ears, and then he hears a voice in the background, familiar and panicked demanding what happened and young him is still crying, “Dad's here, I- Stiles please come save mom, _please_ -”

His dad asks who Stiles is talking to and the call ends, leaving Stiles with shaking hands and heart palpitations.

The thought keeps running through his head. Could he have messed with the time line like that? Is it possible? He looks back at every interaction with his mom, with everyone since he came back, trying to see if he did something, if he changed anything too big, if it's his fault.

When he was younger, he was alone in the room with his mom when she died. He remembers his dad smiling at him before he left, telling Stiles to look out for their lady. Keep her safe, he'd said with a wink and Claudia had laughed him out of the room. She'd been sleeping one second and dead in the next, and he remembers the crippling ache in his entire body, screaming that it was his fault.

This feeling is fifty times worse.

Stiles rushes to the magic cabinet, needing to summon the timekeep and demand if it's his fault, if he did something that could have changed this. There's a thrumming deep in his bones, begging him to know if he killed his mom again.

There's a crinkling in his pocket and Stiles grabs at it, distracted, pulling out the picture of Kate Argent from earlier.

He stops, everything freezes as he looks at it.

Kate Argent, who made a deal with a timekeep that shifted everything off focus. Kate Argent who made such a huge mess of the time line that the timekeep had to come fix it. Kate Argent, who's the reason that Stiles is back in time in the first place, is still alive and breathing while his mom is _dead_.

His eyes glow, rage making him snarl at the picture as he rips it up and tosses the pieces over his shoulder. He grabs blindly, finding a map shoved in the back of the closet.

It's old, yellow with age, but crisp and stays flat when he folds it out on the floor. He remembers Lydia telling him that blood is always more accurate and doesn't even think twice before scouring the kitchen for a knife.

He slices his palm, so angry that he doesn't even feel the pain, and dips two fingers into the mess to draw a compass on the center of the map, shaky and messy and quick. He doesn't care for fineness right now though, body working on auto pilot as he pictures Kate's face in his mind.

It takes no effort to make flames ripple from his palms, fire burning hot and bright with his hate and pain. He touches it to the edge of the map and watches it explode in a quick fire, crumbling into ash instantly.

It takes a second, but, as expected, the image floods his mind, Kate sitting at a local dive bar, flirting with the bartender and chugging back beers, and she looks so happy and carefree that it makes him shake with fury.

The image spans out until he gets a name of the bar before slowly fading from his mind.

Stiles presses his palm into his black undershirt to stop the bleeding and grabs his bag and his keys. He doesn't even look back before slamming the door shut on his way out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't hate me you should go check out timebomb!!! it's an amazing mix made by freshbrains who's a m a z i n g!!


	20. Chapter 19

Stiles' blood is boiling in the car, heating like magma ready to burst. He floors it, driving recklessly through the streets of Beacon Hills and not even caring what would happen if he got stopped for speeding. He doesn't even hiss at the steering wheel pulling at his bloodied hand.

He isn't paying attention to the mostly empty road, mind too busy calling for Kate's death to focus on details like lanes or yellow lights.

Stiles makes it to the bar in record time and grabs his bag before he bolts out of his seat, slamming the door so hard behind him that he's surprised the window doesn't crack. He situates himself, absently clenching his bleeding fist to staunch the blood flow. Maybe he should have stopped to wrap it before he left, he thinks, considering things like DNA at a crime scene wouldn't work too well for this version of himself.

He shakes his hand out and heads to the alley next to the bar, not even attempting to get in the front. His fake ID got left behind in his time line, along with everything and everyone he loves. Stiles thinks about it bitterly as he rubs his thumb along his right wrist, activating his unlocking rune.

Stiles presses his wrist to the cold metal door, listening for the tell tale click before pulling it open.

Inside the bar, it's somber, with country music playing over the stereo. He hears snippets of conversations, loud, drunken laughter, and follows it out of the dark hallway.

He spots her billowing blonde hair as soon as he steps into the room. She's sitting at the counter, knocking back shots and smiling at the bartender. She leans in close to whisper something in his ear that Stiles is sure is absolutely filthy.

Stiles' palms tingle as he sees her, and he marches up to the bar without even thinking. She doesn't notice when Stiles slides up next to her in the unoccupied seat and orders himself a rum and coke, too busy eying up a guy across the bar that looks far too much like Harris to bring Stiles any comfort.

The bartender is quick to make the drink and drops it in front of him with a look. Stiles takes a sip, grimacing as he tastes only coke. He's not too put off though, he wants a clear head to murder Kate.

She eyes him curiously, smelling like cherries and vodka, her attention still mainly on Harris. Stiles leans close to her, enough to look like they're having a friendly conversion to an outsider, “For a hunter,” he starts, smiling as her back twitches straight and the flirty expression slips from her face, “You sure aren't aware of your surroundings.”

Kate turns around to see him fully and sizes him up, her eye twitching as she glares at him, and then she smiles and this one is wild and seductive and Stiles clutches the cup he's holding, “Oh, trust me, honey, I'm plenty aware.”

Stiles feels a hand on his thigh and doesn't move to knock it off. His stomach feels queasy at the warm weight and he dutifully ignores the thumb rubbing circles in his inner thigh.

“Sure you are,” he readily agrees and takes a sip of his drink, wishing for a burn to make him sound rougher, Stiles tries not to give the bartender a dirty look. “It's your job to be aware, right?”

Kate smiles again, and Stiles decides he hates her smile almost as much as he hates her, “Right,” she says, and Stiles feels her hand move closer to his groin, a steady warmth, and he fights the urge to flinch away because his mind is screaming _badtouchbadtouchbadtouch_ , “Anything you want me to be aware of,” Kate leans closer and licks the shell of his ear, her hot breath fanning across the side of his face, “Honey?”

He wonders how Derek put up with being called condescending pet names like that, feels gross at the patronizing tone she says it with, and roots around in his bag to pull out three pictures from his envelope. Stiles drops them in front of Kate before leaning close and putting his hand on her thigh, but it's not seductive so much as a warning, nails digging into her like the claws he wishes he could have right now, “You could make yourself aware of those for me,  _sweetie_ .”

Kate pulls back, dislodging Stiles' hand, and she's still playing the game, still smiling seductively at him and letting her eyes roam over his shoulders as she flips them over. Stiles watches, almost sickeningly gleeful, as her eyes instantly pop open as she sees what's on them.

Stiles nods at her questioning glance, “I have five copies of those,” he lies to her steadily, taking another drink. “I also have a copy of his texting transcripts, where you sext with Derek Hale and ask about his family.”

Stiles still doesn't actually know what's on the transcripts, stomach rolling as he considers looking at them even now, but Kate doesn't call his bluff and Stiles' chest aches at being right. Kate picks through the pictures as he talks- her holding hands with Derek, her kissing Derek, her pressing Derek against the side of the wall and palming his dick.

“Did you know in the state of California age of consent is 18?” Stiles asks mildly, staring at the display of liquor behind the bar. He can feel her eyes on his face, her body practically radiating anger and terror.

“Did you know that as Derek Hale's swimming coach you are placed in a position of power over him?” Stiles tsks and turns to smile politely at her, but his face twitches and he's sure there's nothing kind about the look he gives her, “That's not gonna look too good in the court room, Kate.”

Kate's mouth tightens and she looks like she's sucked on a sour lemon. Her eyes have an unadulterated fury in them as she glares at him and oh, how she must wish she could stab him as easily as she can burn a family of innocent people.

Stiles just grins.

“And, hey, wouldn't it be _so_ weird if the Hale house caught on fire? God, that'd be _so_ crazy. Right?” Kate flinches in place again, frozen as he leans close to her, “It'd be _so_ easy to hand all of this over to the police, don't you think?”

Stiles wonders if you can actually die from the force of someone's glare, knows that you can't because Kate would be in the ground right now if that were true.

Kate doesn't threaten him or storm off, she just grits out, “What do you want from me?”

And it makes Stiles grin wider. “Ah, you're a to the point kinda gal,” Stiles says tauntingly at her, but quickly lashes out and grips her wrist. It's a tight grip and she pulls to test it but her arm has no give. He pulls her close and says, mouth pulled back in a snarl as he hisses, “I want you dead. I want you six feet under. I want them to find your body in  _pieces_ . I want them to have to identify you off of your dental records.”

Kate gasps out and tries to tug her hand away, but he heats his palm up, lets a small fire burn beneath his skin and lick at her wrist, lets her be burned like she's burned so many before, “Do you understand, Kate?”

“Fucking _emissaries_ ,” She pants out in pain. Her eyes actually look scared and Stiles feels a warmth in his chest at her expression, at Kate Argent's fear. As more seconds go by, he can see red dance between his finger tips and blaze against her wrist. The air smells like burnt hair but no one pays them any mind, and she gasps out, “Look- I-I'll leave. Okay? Just let me go and I'll be gone. You'll never see me again, alright?”

Her voice is so panicked that Stiles almost believes her, but her eyes are hard and narrowed at him, fingers on her free hand twitching like she wishes there was a weapon there. Instantly, he lets her go, let's her think she's manipulated him and he sees the quick upturn of her lip before it's gone and she's grimacing in pain again. The skin of her wrist is angry red and splotchy. It looks like plastic, stretching and edging along the palm print indentation.

“I'd ice that,” he advises helpfully and hops off of his chair. Kate's glare could melt silver, but Stiles just grabs the pictures resting on the table and shoves them back in his bag, not even looking back at her as he leaves the bar.

It's not hard to find Kate's SUV, parked on the other side of the bar hidden in the back of the parking lot. He kicks at the new tire, remembers sticking his pocket knife in it only earlier that day. Stiles runs his fingers over it, smiling as he imagines her face when she saw it.

Stiles is quick to unlock the car again, unsurprised that everything is exactly the same as he left it. He roots around, feeling the cool metal over his hands before grabbing a Desert Eagle. Its bar code is scratched off and Stiles smiles as he checks it for ammo. There's gotta be some poetic justice in killing Kate with her own weapons, right?

He locks the car again and flicks the safety on the gun off, making sure to keep it pointed to the floor as he rounds the SUV to crouch behind it.

Stiles stares at the gun in his hands, and he can't stop thinking about his dad's own rough palms as he helped Stiles learn to shoot in the first place. The Sheriff said it was for defense, that everyone should at least know how to operate a gun, and his hands are shaking as he wonders if his dad ever considered that Stiles would use what he taught him to kill someone.

He spends three minutes sitting there, staring at the gun in his hands, letting the cold air settle into his bones, before his phone goes off.

His eyes are murky and he answers the phone without even looking at the caller ID, voice thick as he says, “What, Alan? I'm busy.”

“Kochanie,” an airy voice breathes in his ear, and Stiles freezes at it, “Szczęsny, I'm so sorry, I-”

“Mom?” He asks, voice wobbling, “I- You were dead.”

Claudia takes another deep breath in Stiles' ear and the entire world seems to breathe with it, blowing air into his lungs and he gulps on it, chokes back the tears that flood his eyes, “No, kochanie, I wasn't dead. I- keeping up my wards takes a lot of energy from me, I just didn't realize how much. Who do you think you get your anxiety from, Szczęsny?” She tries to laugh and a bubble of relief leaves Stiles' mouth with her, “It wasn't a good combination, I'm afraid.”

He gulps, “Stiles said-”

His mom's voice is suddenly hard, despite how weak she sounds, “Stiles said a lot of things, kochanie. You should have seen the boy, I couldn't tell if he was crying out of relief or regret. He wouldn't go home with your father until I promised to apologize for him.”

Stiles looks up at the sky and tries to wrap his head around this feeling, this relief inside of him. The gun is a heavy weight in his hands and it feels so wrong to be talking to his mother and holding it, but he's too stiff and his hands won't drop it.

“Mom?” Stiles chokes out, voice hurried and hysteric as he looks away from the sky and to the metal gleaming in his hands, “I thought I killed you. I thought it was my fault again. I-”

Claudia is quick to shush him, voice gentle and nurturing and everything Stiles has missed so much, “No, shh, kochanie, don't think like that. If anything kills me, it'll be this  głupi cancer. Szczęsny, you're too gentle to kill, your soul is too kind. Don't put that on yourself, please drogi. Don't dampen down your spark with feelings like that, let it grow. I love you so much Szczęsny, and I am so sorry that you have had to lose me, but I will never be lost to you. My death will never be your fault, no matter what universe or time paradox you are in.”

A laugh shocks itself out of his chest. Stiles' face is wet, but he doesn't remember starting to cry and he wipes them away with steady hands. There's noise in the background, and Stiles can hear his mother's annoyed sigh.

“I have to go now, kochanie, there's a nurse threatening me with Melissa if I don't get to sleep.”

He laughs again, still feeling warm and light, and he says, “I love you, mom,” into the phone with tears in his eyes.

When his mother hangs up, Stiles is left alone, crouching in a dark parking lot with a stolen gun in his hands. All of the anger and hate from a few minutes ago is gone, leaving him feeling hollow, carved open and pealed out of his skin.

The gun looks foreign in his hands, odd and out of place. He wants to put it on the ground kick it away, wants to go to the hospital and have his mother hold him and pet his hair, but there's a bang, and a woman's voice carrying scathing words to where he's sitting.

“-and then he just left! Chris, seriously, you need to get down here. Their emissary is out of control,” Kate complains, and Stiles can hear gravel shift under her feet. There's a pause, then, “Look, you don't have to tell me that Allison's gymnastic competition is important, I'm the one who got her to sign up for the lessons, but this is possibly a life or death situation. She'll forgive you for missing one stupid thing.”

Stiles' ears perk up at that. Chris didn't even know Kate was in Beacon Hills during the Hale fire in his time line, and now she's asking him to come down? Stiles hasn't gone through all of this bullshit to get rid of one trigger happy hunter just to set another one loose on the town. Stiles tightens his grip on the gun and quickly stands.

He doesn't even hesitate, finger pulling the trigger exactly as he turns the corner. Stiles sees Kate's shocked face blur into a sharp, painful cry as she goes down. Her phone goes flying, landing on the concrete with an ugly crack.

“You stupid little shit,” Kate cries, grunting in pain as she reaches for her bleeding thigh. She lets out another string of curse words, eyes clenched tight when she presses her hands to the wound and hisses.

Stiles doesn't feel anything as he watches her, all the fight wrung out of him. He's tired of this, too tired to deal with Kate.

His hair stands on end, goosebumps running up his arms, and then, suddenly, there's a bright, white light to his left, and a black figure appears. Stiles turns, not knowing what to expect, only to see a familiar shape.

“Took your time, didn't you dear?” They say, voice still eerie and high like nails running across chalk boards. Stiles' eyes widen at them and he takes a quick step back, mostly out of shock than anything. “You've been back here for two months!”

Stiles tries for annoyed but comes across as apathetic as he shrugs, “You didn't really give me a lot to go on. I spent a solid month just tying to figure out what the hell you wanted me to do.”

The timekeep waves a hand, “I told you. It's not my fault you weren't paying attention now, is it?”

“Why are you even here?” Stiles asks, ignoring Kate's gasp and pleas at the timekeep. She's offering him deals, offers him Argent protection, anything to get him to help her.

The timekeep doesn't even acknowledge her as they say, “You're at the fork in the road, dearie. Anything you do after this still guarantees that you've fixed what I needed you to.”

Stiles feels dread curling around his spine and asks, “What's going to happen to me? After I deal with her?”

“Don't worry, spark, I'm not going to kill you,” they grin, mouth wide in what should be a smile but looks predatory, “I'm going to help you, just as you have helped me.”

Stiles glares, “I didn't exactly consent to helping you, did I?”

The timekeep doesn't look concerned with his anger, “I suppose not, but they're your pack. I assumed you'd want to save them, if given the chance.” The timekeep pauses and finally turns to look at Kate, struggling to get to her phone. “As you can see, I was right.”

Stiles steps forward, stomping on her outreached hand. She cries out, a pathetic warble and watches as Stiles reaches down to pick up her phone.

Chris is screaming into it, demanding answers, and Stiles has to pull the phone away from his ear to adjust to the volume.

He orders, “Talk to Melanie,” into the phone, and hangs up on Chris' insistent voice.

“Melanie set you up to this?” Kate snarls from under his shoe. “I can double whatever she's paying you. She's a vinc- ah, shit- a vindictive bitch who's always wanted me gone.”

Stiles lets off on her hand, frowns at her bloodied and bruised knuckles. He finds a thick rope in the car and he throws it around his shoulder.

Kate struggles when he grabs her around the armpits, kicking and clawing, trying to reach him, but he hardly feels them, feels more detachment from the situation than anything she's giving him.

He's quick to prop her up against a pole next to the SUV, even faster when he loops the rope around her and tugs it tight. She's thrashing all the while, screaming and crying out for help, but the street is empty at three am and there's no one to save her.

“Are you going to kill her?” The timekeep asks curiously, sounding both bored and delighted by the prospect. Stiles spares a thought to wonder if the double tinged voice is actually just one person, if it's two people trapped in a body. He doesn't think to ask since Kate kicks out and lands a sharp heel to his shin.

He hisses at it and staggers away, rubbing the spot where a large bruise is sure to form.

“I mean, you can kill her. If you want. That's always a viable option, don't you think?” The timekeeps' eyes glow golden, mouth moving too quickly for words to escape. After five seconds their eyes are white, soulless depths again and Stiles isn't sure which he prefers. “Your choice right now can create sixty eight new universes, if I counted right.”

Stiles looks over his shoulder at her, teeth gritted and faced enraged as she tries to break Stiles' rope. Her thumb is bent at an odd angel and Stiles grimaces, assuming she's broken it in her desperation. He looks at her, and all he sees is Derek. Derek holding a picture of Talia so tight that Stiles feared it would rip, Derek planting Laura’s favorite flower outside the house, Derek watching soccer games because Tarik was obsessed, no matter how much Derek himself hated the sport.

The face morphs slowly, pealing back layers until it's young and innocent, still filled with baby chub and a grin so bright that it physically aches, and Stiles remembers Kate smiling at that face even while she plotted the death of his family.

He thinks of Derek, of what he would want, what both of them would want, and frowns because they're two wholly different people- the choice is impossible.

His Derek would want Kate's head on a spike. This Derek would want to run away and pretend this never happened, let Stiles' story fall in deaf ears and have this entire situation go away.

Stiles reaches into his pocket and decides to compromise.

After he calls the cops and reports a domestic disturbance, Stiles fishes his bag out of Deaton's car and pulls out his envelope of evidence. It feels heavy in his hands, the weight of the Hale pack inside of it. He finds a crumbled piece of paper at the bottom of the bag and writes the names of all of Kate's accomplices, something he still remembers from pouring himself over the case files when this entire mess began, and slips it in the folder.

The timekeep watches him do this patiently, almost unnervingly still.

“Will the police find this if I leave it here?” Stiles asks him, Kate's violent grunts and curses almost drowning out his voice.

“I'm not a crystal ball, dearie,” they say, right before their eyes switch colors again. “Time is ever fluctuating, I thought you of all people would understand that Szczęsny.”

Their use of Stiles' first name makes goosebumps break out along his arms.

After a few seconds, the timekeep nods in confirmation, "It's 86.091% probable that they'll notice it," and Stiles leaves the envelope propped against the trunk of Kate's SUV.

“What is that?” She demands of him, hair sticking to her face as sweat beads down it. She looks like a wild animal, ready to bite through her arm just to escape.

Stiles considers ignoring her, but just her voice is enough to make his magic shake in his chest, and he shrugs nonchalantly as he says, “Just what I showed you inside the bar, plus some.”

She sits ramrod straight at the words, and then she's struggling harder, tugging at the end of her rope with an urgency that Stiles can only think of as feral.

He takes her wrist, the free, unburnt one from earlier, in his palm and strokes it almost tenderly with his thumb as she thrashes out of his grip. It feels good, in some horribly sick way, to be in charge, to have Kate Argent on the other side of it all. 

“The police will be here soon,” Stiles tells her, and her face drops at the news, “And when they get here, you're going to turn yourself in, got it?” Kate's already shaking her head, voice loud as she demands him to let her go, but Stiles continues speaking over her, “You're going to tell them how you seduced Derek and planned to kill the Hales. Maybe you'll plead insanity, who knows right? I don't give a fuck.”

“Why don't you just kill me?” Kate hisses at him.

Static runs along Stiles' palm at the words, hair on the back of his neck standing on end and Stiles _wants_. He wants to, oh, how badly does he want to. He wants to end her, watch the life leave her eyes but he can't. His mother's voice is in his ear, and he won't let her ruin him along with her.

He's going to keep shining and growing but he won't let his hate consume him. He's going to grow into a powerful flame, exactly like his mom had begged him. He'll keep balance, like Morrell and Deaton have taught him. He'll guide, like his mother and father have guided him.

He's a spark, but he's not going to burn like a forest fire. He's not going to destroy everything in his path, but instead he's going to get rid of the infestation so something new will grow, something full of life and goodness and wonder.

Stiles isn't going to let Kate Argent mar his soul, not when she's already ruined her own.

But Stiles doesn't tell her any of this. She's not worth anymore of his time or his words, she's already broken his life enough as is.

He lets the static thrumming through his veins race up her arms, doesn't even feel any joy as she flinches in pain, doesn't feel good about the gasp of agony she lets out. He lets it go after a minute and just walks away, leaves her sitting there panting in pain and crying, hoping she'll do the right thing for once in her life.

The timekeep is still there when he turns around, and asks, “Ready?”

And when Stiles nods, the world turns black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kochanie - sweetie/sweet one/sweetling  
> drogi - dear  
> głupi - stupid


	21. Chapter 20

When Stiles opens his eyes, he's practically blinded by a white room.

It's not just white, it's glowing as bright as a sun, and Stiles wishes he could have been told to bring sunglasses. He holds his hand in front of his face, a valiant attempt to block out the glow of the room, but it doesn't really help much.

The timekeep takes a few minutes of silence to let Stiles adjust to the light, and once he does, eyes still squinting a bit, Stiles takes a look around the room. Except, it's not just a room. It's a long narrow hallway, with large rectangular shapes covering the walls. Some are pitch black, like a veil is over them, and some are glowing neon colors.

“This is your room,” the timekeep says, waving a hand in a flourish down the hallway. Stiles quirks an eyebrow at them, then has to look away because the contrast of the pure black depth of the timekeep's body compared to the whiteness of the room causes a sharp pain between his eyes. “Every living thing has a room- I guess it's a portal of sorts, in layman’s terms. They are windows into your alternate lives. My species prides itself on our filing system.”

Stiles curiously takes a step in the direction of the closest rectangle. It's black and gives off a chilling cold when he puts his hand up to it, like ice running through his veins. He shakes and pulls his arm back, tries to rub the cold from his bones.

The timekeep steps closer to him, mouth twisting into a garish frown as it looks into the rectangle, “Oh dear. Be careful, some of these universes dead- meaning you've died in them.”

That thought does nothing good for Stiles' brain right now. He takes a step back, stomach twisting at the sight of just how many black rectangles there are. How many universes has he died in? How many times has he made a mistake that had cost him his life?

“You are all of these, and yet none at all,” they say, walking down the hallway, “Choose one. It is my gift to you for your help.”

Stiles, still rubbing his cold wrist, turns to follow the timekeep, asking, “Wait, I just get to pick any of them?”

The timekeep's head twists all the way around on their body, making Stiles' heart momentarily stutter at the sight, “Yes, as I just said. You have done me a favor, and now I will help you in turn. I believe there's one where you are a rock star up here at the end. That is what you humans pride yourselves on in your time, isn't it? Fame?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Stiles rubs the back of his head, trying to wrap his mind around the sheer number of portals, “Can't I just- isn't there one where I came from originally? Where you took me from?”

Their mouth twists down, head instantly turning back to the front in a fluid motion, “I'm afraid it's not that simple. That time line has already been rewritten, you already changed what had happened. I cannot send you back as it was for you.”

They walk past a Stiles with blue hair and tattoos up his arms, another with a cocky grin and a football in his hands, and one where he's in a skirt and has long hair billowing around his shoulders. Their eyes, all light brown and wide, follow him as he walks down the hall, blank stares trailing after him.

They look like dolls, different brands of Stiles set on shelves and wrapped in plastic for little kids to pick and choose.

“Wyglądasz zupełnie jak mój Nikodem.” The timekeep sighs softly to themselves, Stiles' ears perking up as his great grandfather's name falls from their mouth like it belongs there, “I met him when he was your age. You have the same moles.”

“I don't actually speak Polish,” Stiles says distractedly, pausing to look at a version of himself with golden eyes.

“I believe in that universe you got the bite instead of your friend,” they say conversationally, “And I'm aware, dearie. I'm just used to falling into the language around you Leśniewski's.”

Stiles turns away from the image, not wanting to think about him being forced to take Scott's place, “So I was right. You're the one that that made the deal with Kate? Just to spend a year with my great granddad?”

“My race doesn't value romantic relationships very highly, not like you humans who place it upon a pedestal and revolve your lives around it. I have always been different from the others, in that aspect, I'm afraid.” They pass a portal where Stiles' hair is combed back, body accentuated in a clean cut suit and a tie. There's a crest on the lapel, something in Latin he can't make out, “In this one your parents won the lottery when you were small. You are considered very rich.”

Stiles shakes his head at it and they keep moving. Each version he passes makes something cold settle in him. They unnerve him. He recalls the timekeeps words, _you are all of these, and yet none at all_ and hates the feeling of loneliness creeping up on him.

“Nikodem summoned me in his pursuit of knowledge,” they say, walking past three black rectangles without any explanation. Stiles tries not to look at them. “Your kind is always asking questions, always stirring up some sort of trouble in the world. I was feeling charitable that day and decided to entertain him, whether the answers I gave him were true or false was up to him to decide, you see. But there was something about him, something that made me want to keep coming back. It was around that time that I was summoned by the Argent girl.”

The timekeep stops and turns to face Stiles, a smile on their face as they shrug, “She asked me to let her prove herself to her father, to make it so she could take over the clan. I was desperate, possibly more desperate than I realized, and I didn't consult the proper channels before clearing her deal. It's frowned upon in my culture to do what I did, to take the body of a human. It's done rarely, so rarely that the younger generations of my kind don't even know if it's possible.”

Stiles walks past the timekeep, eyes caught by a rectangle over their shoulder. The image is him, not these others who wear his face. This version of him is wearing clothes almost directly out of Stiles' usual wardrobe, hands stuffed in the pockets of their baggy jeans and shoulder slumped forward a tad.

“And the rest is history?” Stiles asks when the silence of the room gets too imposing.

“As you know it to be true, yes,” the timekeep walks over and stands next to him, looking up at the version of him with its eyes now golden. “I am truly sorry for what I have put you through Szczęsny. I didn't know how else to fix what I had done in my selfishness.”

Stiles doesn't say anything, ignores the acid swirling in his stomach at the confession and keeps his eyes fixed on the rectangle.

“What's the story on this one?” He asks, voice only a touch bitter.

The timekeeps' eyes glow white again and they say, “This is actually from the universe you were just in. It's the one you fixed.”

Stiles remembers how he felt when he first saw that younger version of him, the shocked, yet awed pride filling his chest when he was instantly called out as a time traveler. He places his hand up to the rectangle, feels his body fill with warmth instead of the gut wrenching cold from before.

“What happens to him? If I choose this universe?”

The timekeep reaches into the rectangle and pulls their arm back out, a dew drop of black resting in their hand. It's the same shade as their skin, practically melting into their flesh. It jiggles as they say, “You will meld together. Their memories will become your memories, and your memories will become theirs. You will share the same thoughts, feelings, body- everything. Your minds will form as one.”

Stiles pulls his hand back, clenching his fist at the warmth that still rests there, and asks, “Will I remember everything?”

“I can make it so you don't, if that is what you would prefer.”

Stiles remembers Scott and him laughing so hard they cried the first time Scott sneezed and accidentally shifted, remembers having paintball wars with Allison and Lydia when Allison was adamant they teach Lydia some self defense, remembers stepping on his tip toes behind Derek and pulling his cheeks up into a forced grin for the pack photo Erica had insisted upon. He remembers warm Sunday mornings and laughter filled full moons. He remembers his family, and it would be so much easier to forget them as they were to accept them as they are now, but there's a sharp ache in his chest that won't let him.

And so he shakes his head, voice hollow as he chokes out, “No. They're still _mine_.”

The timekeep nods easily and cups the ball of black in both hands, swishing it as their eyes glow red. Stiles takes a step back, alarmed, because he doesn't remember his mom mentioning _red_ , but they're back to white just as quick, the ball in their hands now gray with speckles of white and black all around it. It jiggles in their hands like liquid and they take a step closer to Stiles with it.

“You need to swallow this,” They say, pressing it closer to Stiles' face.

He doesn't give Stiles a chance to say no, just as Stiles opens his mouth to ask what it will do, the timekeep forcefully pours it down his throat. He grimaces at the taste, like moldy cheese and ash, but resists the urge to hack it back up.

The timekeep steps closer and presses a hand to Stiles' shoulder. It doesn't feel like anything is touching him, but he feels the quick shove like a swoop of air.

“Wait,” he squares his feet and turns his head, looking the timekeep dead in the eyes for once, “What's going to happen to you? Are you going to go back to Nikodem?”

Their face is blank for a few seconds before twisting into a smile, “Don't you start worrying about me now, Szczęsny. No, I'm going to go back home and tell my superiors of what I've done in my selfishness. I've had my time with Nikodem, and I love him, but what I've done is wrong, and I need to accept my punishment.”

Stiles gapes for a few seconds, unsure what to say to that.

Then, the timekeep laughs, that same eerie, double tinged manic glee from when Stiles first summoned them, and says, “Don't look at me like I'm so misunderstood, dearie. I'm only turning myself in because I would do it again in a heartbeat!”

Before Stiles can even think of a reply, the timekeep laughs again and promptly shoves him face first into the portal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wyglądasz zupełnie jak mój Nikodem. - You look so much like Nicodemus. (thank you Mikoo!!!)


	22. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, man, I'm really emotional right now? I just want to say thank you to everyone who's been on this journey with me, and all of you who have cheered me on and didn't give up on me when it would take me forever tp update. There's seriously a special place in my heart for so many of you. I can't tell you how many times I've looked at you guys to keep me going on this story, or the number of times where I've ran to show friends and family how hilarious you all are. Seriously, you guys are all so inspirational, and I'm a gooey sappy mess and I love you and thank you for being here with me and this fic.

Stiles wakes up slowly, awareness trickling into his sleep fuddled mind. The first thing he registers is warmth, followed quickly by a blinding headache.

His eyes flash open, groaning at the thumping in his head, like a sledgehammer is being repeatedly bashed into his crown. He tries to close his eyes again, but then the pain shifts, agony running through his skull like a knife is being driven through his brain.

Stiles screams as it grows, voice wailing and blood dripping down his nose. He feels like his skull is being cracked open, violently thrown to the ground as if it was nothing more than an egg.

He hears voices, people screaming out his name and shaking him, but he can't reply. All he's capable of is withing on the bed, clawing at his skull to get the pain to stop.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is dark. His head feels marginally better, the great ache lessened to a dull thump behind his eyes. There's a string of pale moonlight shining in through the window and he follows the trail absently, blinking in surprise as it leads to a dark figure sitting sprawled out in a chair.

Their breathing is deep, little snores escaping every few seconds.

Stiles' throat feels clogged, and he breathes out, “Scott?”

His voice is harsh and cracks in the middle of the name, but it does its job. The sleeping body twitches, stretches out with a stiff groan like a cat, back cracking in three separate places.

Stiles sits up in his bed, a surprised jolt as he realizes it _is_ his bed, the same exact bed he had in his time, with the same pillows and the same bedspread and the same headboard. He runs his fingers over it, hands shaking as he grins. He kicks off the blankets, fingers trailing absently over the familiar Beacon Hills Lacrosse sweatpants he's sleeping in.

The carpet is soft under his toes, and it's such a stupid, menial thing to get happy over, but Stiles does, smiling down at the blue surface like it's Christmas morning.

“Hey, Scotty,” he whispers into the quiet of the room, stepping closer to the computer chair and listening with glee as the floor creaks in that same spot.

Scott's body gives a gentle snore and Stiles prods him in the shoulder, a little bit too hard, and Scott lets out a yelp as the precarious position of the chair tips. Stiles give out a body shaking laugh as Scott only barely catches himself on the table edge, breathing hard and glaring at the boy.

The look falls away in an instant, replaced by a bright smile and a, “Stiles! Shit, you're okay!” before Scott bodily throws himself at the boy.

Stiles is still laughing, even as they fall to the bed, body practically floating with happiness and Scott's grinning at him too, mouth stretched wide as he crushes him.

Scott sits up and slaps an a palm into Stiles' shoulder, demanding with that same smile still stuck on his face, “God, you idiot! What happened? No one knew what was wrong with you! Were you messing with your stupid spells again?”

Stiles laughter dies down into chuckles, considering the fact that of course he wouldn't be able to keep anything from Scott, even spark stuff, “Nah, it's, uh, shit, it's a long story.”

Scott rolls his eyes and nudges Stiles' ribs with his elbow, “Everything always is with us, isn't it?” Which elicits another round of hugging and fist bumps.

“Have I been in bed all day?” Stiles asks absently, the clock on his bedside table glowing that it's four in the morning.

Scott scoffs, “Try the past two days, Stiles. Seriously, what the hell happened with you? Your dad wanted to send you to the hospital.”

That seriously puts a damper on Stiles' good mood. He shrugs and shifts his body weight, pulling himself into a sitting position. Scott follows after him, eyebrows pulled together in concern. It's the look that does it.

Stiles can't handle Scott looking at him like this, all sad and worried, not when Stiles has spent way too long being sad and worried himself. He hops off the bed and walks over to the light switch, calling over his shoulder, “Seriously, dude, it's nothing. Don't worry about it. I guess I was just really ti-”

The words die on his throat, a sound like he was just punched in the gut leaving instead.

Gone are the movie posters and crime scene photos. Yarn is nowhere to be scene. There isn't even any family pictures on the wall.

There's just paint. Black paint drawn in harsh cut lines, blue with soft curves and dots, greens of squiggles and shapes. It goes on and on, all along the walls of his room until there's hardly any free space left between.

“Jesus,” he hisses out, touching the closest one, a protection ward right next to the door frame. He feels the energy travel up his arm, hitting his core like spark plugs. The room thrums like a guitar string being plucked, magic shaking the foundation in a shiver of color.

When he turns around, Scott is standing crouched on the floor, eyes red and jaw pushed out to make room for a sharp wall of fangs. Stiles' eyes widen, stomach dropping as Scott twitches his wrist, exposing claws like knives.

“You're not Stiles, are you?” He asks between his teeth, at the same time Stiles gasps out, “ _Holy shit you're still a werewolf._ ”

There's a loud bang and Stiles watches in shock as Claudia Stilinski barges in through his door, John right behind her with a gun in his hands.

There's growling, high pitched snarls, John's stern voice asking if everything is okay, and Stiles chooses that time to pass out.

When he opens his eyes again, he's on the floor staring up into the faces of his mom, dad, and Scott, and he groans and twists away shaking his head, “God, this cannot be happening.”

A memory assaults him suddenly: Scott laying in a hospital bed with a breathing tube down his throat and, outside in the hallway, Stiles stone faced as he demands Talia save his brother. The thumping in his head gets more pronounced at that and he clenches his eyes shut, willing the image away.

“Stiles?” His dad asks, and it's that which makes him open his eyes again, that familiar concern.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and then grabs the offered hand to pull himself up. He rubs at his head, feeling a buzz cut instead of the long hair he'd been sporting what felt like only minutes ago. “I promise, I'm not gonna make a habit of this fainting thing.”

There's an awkward laugh from his parents, Scott's still looking at him with a mixture of suspicion and concern and it's hard to laugh when you're like that, Stiles understands.

“Why don't you boys leave while I talk to Stiles alone?” Claudia asks, “There's fudge in the fridge, Scott.”

“You sure, Mrs. S?” Scott clarifies, but he's already standing and John has a hand on his shoulder, guiding him out the door.

Claudia waits until both of them are out of the room before closing the door behind them with a genial smile. She waits a few seconds, and Stiles can hear the thunk of footsteps on stairs through the floorboards, before gesturing at a rune to his far right.

“Press that, and then we'll talk,” she orders.

Stiles does as she says, activating the worn down silencing rune he remembers tracing on the wall of the library in the Hale house. When he turns around, his mom is sitting on his bed, patting the space next to her.

Stiles chooses instead to take the recently vacated computer chair, sending his mom an apologetic look.

They sit there in silence, just staring at each other. Stiles never pictured his mom as looking a day older than she had in the hospital, but he can see laugh lines around her mouth and crows feet crinkling by her eyes.

“Scott was right, wasn't he?” She asks him, “You're not Stiles, are you?”

Something flares in his chest at that and he says, with more force than necessary, “I am Stiles. I'm me, I'm just- more.”

She raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him and Stiles hates the set of her shoulders, the way she's holding herself too stiffly, as if waiting for an attack.

So he asks, “Do you remember when you were in the hospital and I- there was a time traveling Stiles?”

Her face instantly drops, eyes widening and everything in her going slack.

“Szczęsny,” she breathes, and before Stiles can blink she's holding him, crushing him against her body with a force he didn't think was possible. She breathes in deep, smelling him, and before Stiles can even think about how _weird_ that is, he finds himself relaxing into her embrace.

“What happened to you?” She asks into his ear, “You were just gone one day. Deaton, the Hales, we couldn't find you anywhere!”

“I did what the timekeep wanted me to do. Did Kate-”

Claudia pulls back a fraction to look into his eyes, hand cupping his face, “Yes, kochanie, she was sent to jail. You did so good, Stiles. I was so proud of you, my boy.”

Stiles smiles at her, chest puffing up slightly at the words and she laughs before pulling him back into a hug again.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Stiles mumbles into her shoulder, “But how are you still alive?”

There's a laugh, and Stiles feels something wet drip onto his cheek, “After the trial, it was very obvious I wasn't going to be around much longer, and Talia Hale came to me and offered me the bite. Kochanie, she said that you saved her family, and she couldn't sit around and let part of yours die without trying to help.”

Tears rush to Stiles' eyes and he clenches them, burying his face in his mother's shoulder.

“I saw you, Stiles, kochanie, and you came to me as a soldier looking for any way to survive. The last time we talked you asked me if I thought you should murder someone, drogi, and I couldn't let that happen to you again.” She shakes her head, long, real hair rubbing against his cheek, “Not again. Not if I could stop it.”

He doesn't know how long he stands there, holding and being held, before there's a knock on the door. Claudia lets go of him with a small smile and rubs her hands gently into his shoulders. When he looks, her veins are black and his headache is almost gone.

She bites her lip, “You're my son, don't misunderstand me, but I have to ask... Is my other Stiles gone?”

Stiles' heart thuds against his ribcage and he's quick to shake his head, “No! No, I told you I'm still me. There's just more of me, I- I don't know how to explain it. There's all of these memories and feelings that are mine but aren't? The timekeep said we'd merge...”

Claudia nods and presses a swift kiss to his cheek, “You get some sleep, alright? Do you want Scott to stay the night? He heard you screaming the other day and has refused to leave since.”

Something ache's in Stiles' chest at that but he shakes his head, “No, um, I think I need to be alone for a bit?”

Claudia smiles reassuringly at him and kisses his cheek again before she opens the door, revealing a sheepish Scott and Sheriff on the other side.

“We got nosy,” John admits with a grin, leaning in to kiss Claudia in a silent question of forgiveness. Stiles looks away, not sure how to deal with the sudden memory of his father staring at a golden ring on his left hand over breakfast. “Everything okay in here?”

“Stiles is fine,” Claudia tells them, “But he's tired. Let's go downstairs so I can fill you in.”

The door closes after them and Stiles listens to their footsteps until there's only silence. The bed is just as soft when he lays down on it again, but there's something bitter about it now that he has to struggle to ignore. It takes him seventeen minutes to fall back asleep, and when he does, he dreams. Flashes of memories, ones that contradict the other, like Erica and Isaac kissing right next to Erica and Boyd, the Hale house torn down and rebuilt, Scott getting the bite as a scared boy and him accepting it as a man. They all blur together in his mind like a vortex, and he wakes up feeling confused and disorientated.

The first thing Stiles does is take a shower, feeling stupidly happy at the sight of familiar shampoo and conditioner and using body wash twice just because it smells so much better than old spice. He mentally reminds himself to switch out Deaton's body wash if he's still using old spice.

No one should be using old spice for six years.

Stiles spends ten minutes running his hands along his shoulders and sides, frowning at the lack of runes there. He knew, objectively, that they wouldn't be there, but a general feeling is different from actually seeing it himself. His arms look foreign without the scars on them, and he feels naked and defenseless and so human that it hurts.

He may play with the water for a bit to make up for the fact, making ice sculptures and swirling balls of liquid. What he does in the shower is his own private business, dammit.

Once he's out of the shower, Stiles spends a bit more time than normal just looking into the mirror, staring at himself.

It's weird. Really, really weird. Some memories trickle in slowly, and some are just there, like they've always been there. Some are triggered by seeing something, like last night with Scott and his mom, and some feel permanent. They both feel like his, just like lost memories that he's remembering slowly. He can remember how Erica's hair smelt the day she had a seizure in eighth grade, how she felt thrashing in his arms and he remembers crying, thick tear drops spilling down his face as he begged her to be okay, but he can also remember a parallel memory to that, with different feelings and thoughts attached to it, and neither is invalid or wrong or anything. They're just his.

And it's just really fucking weird.

Stiles is finally able to pull away from the mirror to brush his teeth.

There are people whispering downstairs, voices hushed to not draw attention to themselves. Stiles chooses to put proper clothes on before dealing with people, and only once he's ready does he go downstairs.

They all look exactly as he remembers them, and that's what makes it hurt worse. They all stare at him with wide eyes and uneasy features, shifting nervously around in his living room like they're scared and Stiles wants to run back upstairs and say fuck everything. He wants to hide under his bed and force them to leave. He doesn't want to deal with this right now.

But they're all sitting there and looking at him, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Boyd, Isaac, Erica, Danny and Jackson. They're all just waiting for him to do something, and he's not sure what.

“I thought I said befriend them, not turn them into creatures of the night,” Stiles mumbles aggressively to himself before he turns and walks directly into the kitchen.

He hears shuffling and instantly they're all behind him, following him like ducklings into the kitchen and it makes his headache return, makes his chest ache like when he's running on adrenaline and he wants out of the too small kitchen.

Lydia's the first to speak, demanding, “Stiles, what are you doing?”

Her voice, familiar as it is, does nothing to calm him. He shrugs, reaches into the freeze for waffles, “Making breakfast. You want something?”

No one answers.

They all just watch him shuffle over to the toaster and pop his waffles in, looking unsure and uncertain and unfamiliar and it makes him seethe.

“Well, great, because there's only two waffles left in here and I haven't eaten in six years, so,” he trails off, unsurprised when no one laughs at his joke. No one did in 2007, either. Time traveler humor is just lost on linear people.

There's someone at his side and Stiles turns his head, not surprised to see Scott standing next to him and offering him a weak smile, “When you told me about your time traveling self from the future, I always thought you were joking.”

“Yeah!” Erica chimes in, “Like, a sardonic type of thing, y'know? 'Oh, werewolves are real, what's next? Time Travel?' Seriously, Stiles? You could have warned us better.”

“It's not like I had an exact date on when this would happen,” Stiles grits out, trying hard to be patient when all he wants to do is flee.

“It was more an icebreaker for me, personally,” Isaac admits from where he's propped against the wall, looking bored out of his skull, “He just came up to me and said, 'Oh, hey Isaac, my time traveling self from the future said I have to be your friend.' I mean, sure, I thought you were weird out of your skull but It was creative at least. I feel like our entire friendship has been a lie.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Sorry for your heartbreak, Isaac. I'll be more than happy to reimburse you for your pain and suffering.”

Stiles turns to grab the syrup from the cupboard, catching Isaac's grin as he says, “I take checks.”

“Are we really pretending this isn't as weird as it is?” Jackson's asks irritably.

“I mean, personally, I think it's weirder for me,” Stiles shrugs, pretending he's not freaking out as he bathes his waffles in syrup, “Seriously. Do you know how much shit I have got going up here? Quick, remind me who's what before I have an aneurysm.”

Everyone goes around in a sharing circle telling Stiles what he already knows. Lydia's a banshee, Jackson's a werewolf, Boyd's a werewolf, Isaac's a werewolf, Erica's a werewolf, Danny's a werewolf, Allison's the resident weapons expert and leader of the Argent clan, and Scott's the alpha.

“You're the emissary, in case you forgot,” Scott adds as an afterthought, face still doing that twitchy concern thing that makes Stiles both angry and happy.

“I was in the other time line too, in case you cared,” Stiles volleys back with more bite than intended.

Stiles moves to brush past the group of teens holding up the wall when Scott grips his shoulder and turns him around. Stiles lets him, moves with the motion and comes back to face Scott, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Look, we're here for you, okay?” Scott asks, widening his eyes in his earnest way and all it does is make Stiles' stomach twist, “We're your pack and we're gonna help you get through this.”

Stiles wants to tell him that there's nothing to get through, that he's fine, that he's still him just not him at all and it's okay because he can handle it, but none of that comes out.

All he can make his mouth say is, “Fine,” and when he's half way up the stairs, he manages to call over his shoulder, “Close the door on your way out!”

He spends the rest of the day laying in bed, making fire with his hands and telling himself that he's okay.

Claudia and John both come by separately to check in on him, but he sends them away using that he's tired as an excuse. “Intergalactic time and space travel will do that to a person!”

Stiles doesn't sleep that night. He stays up and scours the internet, looking at pictures of his life and his friends lives and trying to fit them into both worlds that he knows but it feels wrong, like jigsaw pieces that look like they fit but just won't. He eventually ends up throwing the laptop away from him in frustration.

Everything's the same, yet so different he could scream. He wishes he had long hair just so he could pull it out.

After a few rounds of fifty two card pick up, which he's exceptionally good at because it requires zero thinking, Stiles fetches his computer again and googles Kate Argent. There are numerous articles and websites that come up. Apparently her trial was huge. She even has an old myspace page, full of guys who think she's too attractive to go to jail and looking at it makes him sick. He quickly reports it and goes back to his google search. He finds an article from September of that year and clicks on it.

_“Argent is facing a sentence of eight years of statutory rape, eighteen years for attempted arson in the first degree, a possibility of life in prison without parole for attempted murder, ten years for engaging in sexual activity with her student, and twenty for child pornography, where Argent admitted to trading sexually explicit photos with a teen. She has plead guilty to everything except the attempted arson and murder. The defense claims they have evidence against Argent, but we will find out more after the court case next week. She faces a fine of $60,000 and has little hope of parole time._

_“I had no idea,” says her brother, Chris Argent, 28. “This all just feels very surreal.” Argent and the rest of her family declined comment._

_After the backlash of the highly criticized ruling of the Jessica Micheal’s case in 2003, it is expected that Argent will pay heavily for crimes she has committed.”_

Stiles does more research, face twisting in disgust. As the case goes on, more and more is shed to light. Stiles feels relief burn bright inside of him when he doesn't see either Derek or the Hale's name anywhere on the websites, but feeling revulsion at how people were clamoring for more of the story. In the end, he learns that Kate did get a proper sentence for everything she was accused of, and smiles to himself, remembering his mom whispering in his ear that he had done well.

Thoughts start to creep in about Derek, about the “youth in question” and he has a burning need to figure out if he's okay, but he shoves it down. Tells himself that Derek isn't his responsibility anymore and tries to believe it. He spends the rest of the night watching movies and pretending real life doesn't exist.

Stiles wakes up sometime around noon, curled around his laptop with headphones falling from his ears. There's cold toast and apple juice next to his head but he ignores it, along with the memory of no one ever leaving cold toast and apple juice next to his bed.

There's no one downstairs, dad at the station and mom to her job at the social workers office. He camps out on the couch with a bag of chips and mountain dew, sparing a thought for his dad's heart that is very quickly pushed away in favor of crappy daytime television.

He drags his xbox down; plays a lot of video games and talks a lot of shit to strangers on live. Scott sends him a request for a game a few hours in which he quickly declines and goes back to playing solo. No one judges him in Halo and, hey, if he dies he gets respawned in a few seconds.

Everything works out in Halo.

“I think you're depressed,” his dad says to him sometime around eight, and Stiles jumps a mile high because he hadn't even heard John come in.

“Well, I'm not,” Stiles shoots back quickly, cursing to himself as he finds out he died during his tiny heart attack.

The sheriff makes a disparaging noise, asks, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Stiles respawns and grabs a gun, shrugging, “Not really at all, actually.”

There's a beat of silence, then, “Well, tough luck kid. I didn't become sheriff by not asking questions.”

He groans obnoxiously and pauses the game. Stiles twists around and leans against the coffee table, eyes on his dad sitting in his lazy boy that wasn't in one life but is in this one.

“What's up?” He asks, snagging some Doritos crumbs out of the now empty family sized bag.

John sighs as he relaxes into his chair, pulling the lever and letting his feet hang in the air. He hums, and says, “Your mother didn't tell me about this whole time traveling nonsense until after you disappeared, you know?” He pauses, then clarifies, “It is you, right? I'm understanding that correctly? Your body isn't in some limbo and you're an alternate you, right?”

Stiles grabs a mountain dew, tries to explain as best as he can, “Let's say I became a Buddhist. That's the one with the past lives, right?”

“Buddhism is more karma being past onto the next life, but I think I see what you're getting at. Keep going.”

Stiles waves his hand, “Right, okay. Let's say that I used to have a bunch of karma, and in this life I suddenly get all of that karma at once. So, now I have two karma's and still one me, get it?”

John shakes his head with a gentle smile, “Not a clue, kid. Try again.”

Stiles groans and grabs more crumbs, chewing them as he says, “Look, just, lots of memories that are mine but I didn't experience in this time line. One me. Okay? I'm still me, just with _more_ of me.”

John's face is blank for a few seconds, before he laughs, “You have got to find a better way to explain that. Alright, whatever, I think I get it. It's like you have multiple personality disorder?”

Stiles says, “Not at all,” and takes a generous swig of his soda.

They go through this same conversation three more times before John finally gets bored of it, still laughing as he says, “Alright, alright. Anyway, your mom was hysterical. Said you weren't answering your phone, Deaton had no clue where you were, didn't know if you were lying in a ditch somewhere. You know your mother. She freaked out at Disneyland that one time when you went to throw something away.”

“Poor Mickey Mouse will never be the same,” Stiles shakes his head sadly at the memory.

“Yeah, so imagine her three times worse. I, the only one who did not know he had a magical time traveling son, went crazy. I set out amber alerts, road blocks, the whole shebang, only for you to call me from the house thirty minutes later to ask me what we were doing for dinner. God, son, I was furious with your mother, told her that her crazy was going to cost me my job, blah blah blah. Wasn't a good time for me, I can admit.”

John scratches the back of his neck, smiling at Stiles, “Then she tells me it all, _everything_. I have to admit, at first I thought she was talking nonsense, then she set my shirt on fire and at that point I kinda had to believe her or else she would have killed me.”

Stiles laughs at the image, “Wish I had been there to see that.”

John grins at Stiles, letting out a quiet chuckle, “Yeah, I bet you do kiddo. Anyway, after she told me that, I guess I just felt lost for a second there. She was telling me all of this amazing stuff about you, about how you were saving lives, about how strong you were, and Stiles, I wanted nothing more than to find you so I could meet what an amazing young man I had managed to raise.”

Stiles' eyes water and he clenches them shut, quickly trying to get rid of them. He hears his dad sigh contently, and the squeak of a chair that signifies him getting up.

“We actually met once,” Stiles admits, focusing on running his finger along the table edge, “I was out with Derek and Laura Hale, and you pulled us over and talked me down from a panic attack.”

Stiles feels a hand on his head, leans into the affection there but doesn't look up at his father, fears that the cup will run over and he'll be nothing more than a puddle of water.

“Huh, no kidding? I thought that dorky kid looked familiar.” His father's voice is laced with warmth as he says, “Well, I'm glad I got the chance to be there for you, even if I didn't know.”

Stiles feels something pressed to the crown of his head, a gentle kiss, one that Stiles hasn't gotten since he was eight and fell off the slide, “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I love you, no matter what crazy time line you're from. You're a hero son, and I'm happy to have you here.”

Stiles listens to the sound of his dad walking into the kitchen, hears the faucet turn on and water pouring into a glass. There's footsteps going in the direction of the stares, and Stiles admits into the silence of the room, “I don't feel like a hero.”

There's a pause, then a loud hum, and John says, “Good. All the best heroes feel that way.”

And Stiles' shoulders feel a little less heavy.

Stiles dreams that night about Kate straddling him against the bed and he's not able to move, body so still he might as well be laced with kanima venom. She touches him with ice cold fingers, hands wrapped around his throat and he can hear her screaming in his ears, yelling that he should have killed her, over and over and over again until it plays like a drumbeat in his ears.

He wakes up in a puddle of sweat, clothes sticking to his body like they've been blasted with water. His chest is heaving, heavy breaths escaping his lungs before he can even fully take them in, heart pounding so hard it feels like it's going to jump out of his chest.

He takes a warm shower and sinks into the familiar comfort of video games and crappy cable TV.

And so it goes. He finds an adderall bottle in a drawer and takes it like it's going out of style, lets it sink him into the comfort of numbness. Stiles knows it's wrong to abuse his prescription like this, knows his mom is going to flip when it's the middle of the month and he doesn't have any left, but he can't bring himself to care.

He spends days watching television, camped out in the living room because he can't walk into his room without seeing Kate and Derek and Scott and everyone. He starts avoiding his mom and dad, learning their schedules so he can hide in the shower until they retire to their rooms. He dodges Scott calls and the pack showing up at his door step, meticulously draws runes into the walls and on his skin and does anything to keep him from feeling vulnerable and clawed open.

“Your friends are worried about you,” Claudia says, when she finds him sitting on the couch at three in the morning.

Stiles shrugs, scoops another spoonful of lucky charms out of the giant mixing bowl he's using. His slurp is loud in the quiet of room, and it's only at Claudia's judging stare that Stiles realizes he forgot to turn the TV back on hours ago. He tries to imagine the picture she's seeing, him sitting alone in the dark, wearing the same pajama pants he's worn for the past two weeks, eating cold cereal. He tries to care, but isn't upset when he can't manage it.

The couch squeaks as his mom takes a seat next to him, curls up around his shoulder as best as she can. She presses a quick kiss to his cheek and it's enough to make the corner of his lip turn up slightly.

She smiles at the movement, grin wide and bright and enough to make his chest ache. Stiles offers her a spoonful of cereal and she takes it, crunching loud next to his ear as she sighs.

“You can't just hide here forever, Stiles,” She tells him, running her hand over his head.

Stiles doesn't say anything. He picks up the remote discarded at his side and absently turns the TV on, flipping through channels without even really seeing the screen. He stops on a random station and goes back to rooting through his cereal, intently focused on finding all of the marshmallow pieces. Claudia says something else but he's not paying attention, determinedly searching for one more red balloon to eat.

Claudia leans in close and whispers, “I'm worried about you too, Szczęsny.”

Stiles, finally satisfied with the amount of marshmallows on his spoon, eats it, mumbles around the sticky sweets, “I'm fine,” and pretends it sounds convincing.

It doesn't, but she's kind enough to let it drop for now, in favor of stealing more of his cereal.

“I'm here if you need me, you know?” She asks, “I can be your robin, too.”

Stiles tries to grin at her, lies, “I'm fine, I just need some time to adjust.”

She doesn't call him out on the fumbling of his heart. They spend the night curled up on the couch, pretending to watch the news.

As the news channel predicated, it does rain the next day.

Stiles finds a bottle of jack in his dad's office, hidden behind the case files in the back of his cabinet that Stiles is explicitly not allowed to touch.

He drinks it without even thinking about it, letting it burn down his throat and it makes him feel light and happy. He smiles for the first time in what feels like years, letting the alcohol wrap him in warmth. He dances on the coffee table to the sound of Jerry Springer's audience booing, makes a mess out of the kitchen in some bastardized attempt at making an omelet, and tries to walk up the stairs three times before giving up and just crawling up them.

He finds her in his room, sitting on the computer chair and looking through his CD's without a care in the world.

“You're an unattractive drunk,” she says over her shoulder.

Stiles doesn't bother replying to that, takes another chug and lets the numbness of his tongue be answer enough. The bed is soft when he sits down on it, and he's able to momentarily forget why he's been avoiding his room so much in the first place.

“What'd'you want Erica?” He slurs through the sentence, tries to give her a dirty look but he ends up looking behind her, to the runes on the wall that seem to grow eyes in the middle of the night and watch him. He turns away, looks back to his bottle and all the good things it gives him.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Erica says, standing up from the chair and stepping in front of him. Her face is full of pity, but there's a fire in her eyes that suggest she's more angry than anything, “Obviously, you aren't coping well despite what Scott's been telling us.”

“Scott isa good alpha. You should listen to him more, missy,” Stiles says.

Erica tosses her hair over her shoulder, scoffs, “He's letting our emissary go crazy. What kind of alpha does that?”

“A good one,” Stiles repeats, gesturing to her with his hand, “An _understanding_ one. Seriously, how'd you even get in here?”

“You let your wards fall down when you're drunk,” she sighs, “Don't you remember? We had a party here once on a full moon because you swore no werewolves would be able to leave. We spent half the next day looking for Isaac, only to find him curled up with a bunch of rabbits in the forest.”

Stiles does remember that. Vividly. He takes another drink until the image goes away, until he can't see Isaac holding a pile of baby bunnies to his chest and one curled up in that poodle he calls a hairdo.

“Stiles, come on, let us take care of you,” Erica reaches for the bottle, only to frown when Stiles pinwheels back on the bed to get it out of her reach. She glares at him, stance shifting into something more determined, “Stiles. Give me the bottle.”

Stiles gives her a look, “Yeah, that's not happening sister.”

“What was the point of coming back if you're not going to deal with this?” Erica spits out, glare harsh and hands curled into tight fist at her sides.

Stiles thinks he hates her, remembers quickly that he doesn't. He wants to turn into a ball under his blanket and scream until she goes away, but he knows Erica, and no matter what, she wouldn't just leave him alone when he wants to be. She's annoying like that, a pesky mosquito always buzzing around.

He says, “I am dealing with it,” and takes another swig of the bottle, let's it burn his throat so he doesn't have to speak anymore.

Her hand flashes out and rips the bottle from his grip, the drink sloshing up the edges and spilling onto the carpet with a splatter. Stiles watches the stain form disinterestedly, picks up a dirty sock from the edge of his bed and drops it somewhere near the mess.

“You've ruined everything!” She tells him, gesturing with the bottle to encompass the entirety of what he is. “Everything was great before you decided to take over Stiles' life-”

“Everything was already ruined!” Stiles yells back, and Erica's mouth drops open as he raises his voice for the first time in weeks, “Everything was- it wasn't fine, where I came from, but it was still mine, okay?! I'm still me but I'm- I'm not _me_ anymore I'm-” He chokes on the words, swallows them back down before he can vomit them onto Erica anymore.

Her face is slack when he looks back at her, hands limp and he's able to get the bottle back from her. He takes another drink, quicker, lets it spill out the edges of his mouth and she doesn't stop him.

“Leave,” Stiles demands, but it comes out as a plea, and Erica, for once, listens to him.

Stiles passes out sometime around three in the afternoon, vomit on his shirt and reeking like a brewery. He wakes up to cold water hitting his face, sputters and gasps for air, memories of being held down in an ice bucket until he died making him clamor at the edges of the tub, until he feels Claudia's soothing hands running over his face, whispering hushed words until he calms down.

And then he's crying, the water blurring his tears but doing nothing to stop the smell of salt in the air, and Claudia looks like she's been gutted.

“Stiles, drogi, what's wrong?” She begs him, “Please, _talk to me._ ”

“Nothing,” he tells her, spitting out water and pulling himself up from the tub, “I'm fine! You're the one who threw me in the bath with my clothes on.”

Claudia sighs at him, “You were passed out in a puddle of your own vomit, Szczęsny. I can't ignore this any longer-”

“I'm fine,” Stiles says again, quicker, more demanding, voice tinged with desperation as he flings himself forward to turn off the faucet. “I don't know why everyone is making such a big deal out of this-”

“Because you're not fine, Stiles!” She yells at him, and it's the first time Stiles has ever seen her eyes glow golden, “Every time anyone asks, all you say is fine, but you're not. Erica told me she came by today and you could hardly even walk-”

“Erica is a lying liar who should not be listened to-”

“I'm worried, your father is worried, and your pack is worried-”

“No one asked you to worry!” Stiles cuts her off, chest heaving as his voice ricochets off the tile of the bathroom, “Alright? I left my pack behind when they were dying, just so I could go and make a new one and this one isn't them, they aren't, it's- I don't deserve anyone to worry about me, I'm not- I can't be who they want me to be, okay? I'm just-” Stiles screams, lets his frustration and anger and pain all into a giant, high pitched yell. His ears ring but he can't, there's too much air in his chest and he can't, he can't, he can't-

He's being crushed against a chest, his mother's voice in his ear talking him down from the panic inside of him, but it's still there, still ripping into him with a knife and it hurts and he can't breathe.

“I don't know what's going on with me,” he admits to her, voice strangled with barb wire, “I keep trying to explain it to everyone but I don't even understand it- I don't know what's real anymore or what's the new me or what's the old me and everything just blends together and there's so much that I can't even think sometimes-”

She's speaking in Polish, sharp and fast in his ear with hard letters. He can't make out the words, just lets her voice rush over him until he feels like he can breathe again. She's crying, clutching him to her, whispering in her first language like she's begging him to be okay, and he falls asleep gulping for air with her tears on his cheeks.

He wakes up with a pounding headache and bodies wrapped around him.

Stiles groans as he opens his eyes, immediately closing them at the light shining in through his window and rolls over to snuffle his way into the crook of someone's shoulder. He hears noise, light whispers and he knows he's being discussed but the headache is far too obnoxious to make him care right now. There are hands on his head, gently petting him back to sleep, and he lets the warm surrounding him take him back.

The next time he wakes up, Stiles is sweating with how hot it is.

“Jesus,” he pants, shoving at Isaac's bony hips to get him off of Stile's stomach, “We live in California, people. Save the cuddling for Winter.”

He opens his eyes as he sits up, ignores just how many people are laying on his bed watching him, and deftly moves around the tetris of limbs to fall out of bed.

Someone clears their throat but Stiles cuts them off with, “Save the intervention until after I've peed, okay?”

After he's gone to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, he feels ready to face the room of people again. Not emotionally ready, but he's used to pretending at this point.

The pack is all standing when he gets back. John, Claudia and Melissa are standing worriedly off to the side. They all give him matching, supportive smiles when he catches their eyes and he tries to smile back but he's not sure if his face does the job.

It's awkward in the room, quiet like all of the air has been sucked out of it. He wants to crack a joke, lighten the tension, but can't bring himself to. _It's their crappy intervention_ , he thinks as he snags a free chair.

There are a lot of facial twitches and mouthed words being thrown around, pointed looks and hand gestures but Stiles doesn't bother to decipher them. He feels so indifferent, imagines there's a wall between him and these people, like they're in a bubble, floating farther and farther away.

Scott finally clears his throat and hops off the bed.

“Scotty, my boy,” Stiles grins at him, “Welcome to the intervention. I'm sure mom here would like to get you a glass of water if you need it.” No one thinks he's funny still. Stiles doesn't take it personally. “She wasn't able to do that before for my friends, because she was dead, but now she's alive and she's able to plan interventions.”

Isaac coughs weakly from the bed.

“Stiles,” Scott starts, “We care about you, a lot, and we're all really worried about this road you're going down.”

Stiles absently plays with a loose string of thread on the arm of the chair. Resigned, he asks, “You couldn't even be original?”

“He made us marathon two seasons of Interventions last night,” Jackson scoffs from the bed, “Can you at least pretend to be grateful?”

“I was going to make a graph, but Boyd told me that would be rude,” Danny admits from where he stands by the bookshelf.

Stiles mimes zipping his lips.

Scott looks at Stiles, and then around the room, and then back at Stiles, and he shifts his shoulders back, sliding into that true alpha stance that Stiles know so well.

“Stiles,” he says again, “You're my best friend, my brother, and I know I can't even begin to understand what you're going through, but it hurts me to see you doing this to yourself.”

There's an ache in Stiles' chest at that and he goes back to playing with his string, trying his best to be anywhere but here.

Scott steps closer and crouches down in front of Stiles, making them eye to eye and Stiles squirms, needing to get away from Scott, from his pack, from everyone, needing to be _alone_. Why can't they just understand that?

“Stiles, I love you. We love you. You're not as alone as you think you are, alright?” Scott tries to smile at him, and his eyes do that wide, puppy thing and it makes Stiles want to sink into the floor, “I know I'm not the other Scott, and that's okay, because I'm _me_ and you're _you_ and we always get through everything together. No matter what.”

It's just such a Scott thing to say, is the thing. Stiles' lip quivers as he looks into Scott's eyes, admitting, “I don't know how to be me anymore. I don't know how I'm going to be who you want me to be, and I'm scared, all the time. I'm afraid I'm going to lose you, or disappoint you, or do something wrong when it would have been right over there. I don't know how to handle it, or any of this, and I'm _terrified._ ”

Scott grabs his hand, smiles at him, “We can be terrified together, dude.”

They reach for each other at the same time, pulling each other in by the shoulders, clutching tight to each other like they're afraid the other will disappear, and it's the first time Stiles feels normal in months.

* * *

Stiles spends the next morning eating more cereal and watching game shows, as per usual, but he does it while occasionally returning text from Scott and Lydia. They're one word replies, but it's enough to make them feel better.

The doorbell rings around ten and Stiles crinkles his nose at it, chooses to ignore it because getting up seems like too much effort. He flips the channel and spins his spoon around in his now mushy cereal, playing with it until it starts to look like ice cream.

The doorbell rings five minutes later and Stiles groans, deciding that little Sally door hopper isn't going away until he buys at least one box of cookies.

The last person he expects in the world is standing on the other side of the door, a judgmental eyebrow raised at him.

“You answer the door dressed in boxers?” Boyd asks, eying the rocket ships with a critical eye.

“I wasn't expecting company,” Stiles waves him off.

Both boys are silent, and Boyd's still staring at Stiles clothes.

“Stop judging me,” Stiles snaps, a little more force than necessary.

Boyd holds up his hands defensively, “I'm not judging you.”

“Yes you are.” Stiles argues. “I can very clearly see you judging me.”

Boyd is still silent and judgmental, and Stiles twitches closer to the door.

“I'm not depressed,” he says, “Go away. You can tell Scott I'm still alive and not binge drinking.”

“I'm not here for Scott, and I never said you were depressed.”

Stiles' eyes twitch suspiciously at Boyd.

Just as the silence is getting even more awkward than it was originally, Boyd asks, “Do you wanna watch a movie?”

In Boyd's hands is the new Iron Man movie, the one that Stiles can't find a suitable stream of online, and he huffs, “You shouldn't do these things to me, Vernon, not when you know how I feel about Marvel.” He opens the door wider and heads into the living room, calling over his shoulder, “Popcorn's in the cupboard, and I expect it to be perfect.”

Boyd always makes perfect popcorn, no matter the time line. Stiles can never tell if it's magic or a gift, but every single kernel is popped to perfection and absolutely no pieces are burnt. Boyd also doesn't talk in movies, which is rare among Stiles' chosen group of friends. They're mouth breathers, all of them, he decides, snagging the offered bowl of popcorn and setting it firmly in his lap.

Stiles gets way too engrossed in the movie, watching with extra care and attention as Tony Stark is absolutely haunted by his experiences. He watches Stark unable to sleep and feels a familiar ache in his chest, sees him have panic attacks and dodge questions about New York, and Stiles feels like he can't breathe during parts of the film because it's so painstakingly familiar to him. He watches Tony struggle to hold it together and cling to the suit, his weapon and security, and Stiles has to leave to hide in the bathroom because it's all too much to take in.

He's alone for all of five minutes before Boyd finds him. He opens the door with ease and slides down to sit on the floor next to Stiles, resting a gentle, yet supportive, hand on his shoulder.

“Did you know my dad's a fireman?” Boyd asks him softly, and when Stiles nods his head, he continues, “One day a beam fell on him at work. It was after Alicia first disappeared. He really shouldn't have been working, but he wanted to take his mind off of it. He wasn't paying attention to the fire and didn't realize... His leg got trapped under a burning beam. He got out fine, and his leg was only fractured, but he wouldn't go back to work for months. He wouldn't even let us use the stove. I think we lived off of take out for a few weeks before my mom put her foot down.”

Stiles counts the tiles on the other side of the bathroom as he listens to Boyd's story, tries to stay grounded but he can't because all he can think about is taking pictures of Kate and Derek, of feeling lost and out of control for months, of the crushing loneliness he still feels like an anvil on his chest, and it hurts too much.

“It's okay to not be okay,” Boyd says quietly in the silence of the bathroom. “I'm here if you need to talk, Stiles.”

They sit there for half an hour, just breathing, and the bones in Boyd's legs crack as he stands. He offers a hand to Stiles, and Stiles feels an indescribable terror rush through him at the offered hand, at the support it represents.

He takes a deep breath, quivering as he asks, “Boyd? Your dad- he's okay now? Right?”

Boyd waits until Stiles looks up at him before he nods, “Yeah, and you will be too. I promise.”

When Stiles grabs Boyd's hand and lets himself be pulled off the floor, it doesn't feel as scary as he thought it would.

* * *

To say Lydia looks surprised surprised when she opens the door to see Stiles on her front porch is an understatement.

“Aren't you busy being crazy?” She asks him, leaning against the door jamb.

Stiles scoffs, “Shut up, you're totally worried about me. Scott told me you made him read a bunch of books.”

Lydia sighs and rolls her eyes, “I should have known better than to keep the mighty alpha from his emissary. What do you need?”

“I need you to come with me to kill a tree.”

Lydia at least pretends to think about it before smiling politely at him and closing the door.

Stiles is quick to put his foot in it before it closes, grunting as it slams against his toes.

“No, seriously!” He squawks, “In the other time line we got rid of the infestation in the nemeton and the only way we can do it is tonight, or else we have wait another month. It turns the beacon radar thing down like seventy percent.” Stiles tells her, grinning as her mouth goes slack.

He squeaks as she slaps him on the arm, “You idiot! Why didn't you tell us this weeks ago! We had to move a gnome colony last week. Do you even understand how hard that is?”

Stiles, thankfully, does not.

Lydia's quick to get her shoes on after that, throwing a cardigan over her shoulders and practically pushes him out of the house, hissing, “Hurry up before that thing attracts dragons or something!”

The drive to Deaton's house is easy and familiar to Stiles. On the way there, he explains to Lydia that he basically lived there for two months.

“You know, you still haven't explained to everyone exactly what happened,” she tells him, voice soft.

Stiles makes a noise high in his throat as he pulls into a parking spot, “And I probably never will. I don't even like thinking about it, most of the time.”

Lydia bites her lip, like she wants to say something smart and intruding, but ends up sighing, “All the books say I should let you come to terms with it on your own.”

“What great books you're reading,” Stiles tells her as he holds the door to the building open for her, “You should lend them out to literally everyone else in the pack.”

Every since the intervention, the pack has been constantly texting him and asking if he's okay. He still only replies to Lydia, Scott, and his parents. Sometimes Boyd, because Stiles still feels warm and appreciative over Boyd taking the time to talk to Stiles. He's waiting patiently for that feeling to wear off so they can go back to their neutral relationship of avoiding each other.

She rolls her eyes and they're quiet the entire elevator ride up there, Lydia twiddling with her fingers like she's trying to distract herself. Stiles gives her ten minutes until she cracks, maybe fifteen tops.

It's a weekday, so Stiles is suitably surprised when he opens the door with the spare key hidden on top of the doorway and Deaton is sitting casually at the island.

He doesn't know what to do, freezes up at the sight of him. His heart pounds in his chest, breathing accelerating rapidly. Stiles tries to breathe, tries to focus on the present, but all he can feel is Deaton carefully sewing him up the first night he was brought back here, the calm veterinarian helping him research and talk to him and it's not Deaton, it's what he represents that has Stiles feeling like his heart might explode out of his chest.

Lydia's telling him that it's okay, it's alright, and that's stupid because Stiles knows that it's okay and it's alright, he honestly does, but his stupid brain and body don't, and Stiles hates feeling this out of control. He tries to count the floorboards, the petals of each flower on the coffee table, but everywhere he looks there's memories.

He finds himself back outside the apartment, leaning on his knees and taking deep breaths.

Lydia comes out a few minutes later to join him, carefully rubbing his back like she's afraid he'll attack her.

“Tell Deaton I'm sorry for that,” he orders, because he is and it hurts. Deaton was so nice to him before, taking him in when he had nowhere else to go, and the fact that he had that kind of reaction stings. “And then ask him to give you all of the ingredients I bought last time I was living here, if he hasn't used them yet.”

Lydia nods and leaves him be, and Stiles focuses on counting all of the tiles in the hallway. He's in the two hundreds by the time she comes back, arms full of vials.

“He had everything already sitting on the couch,” she tells him quietly, adjusting the bottles in her grip, and Stiles ignore the pang that sends through him.

He shoves the feeling down and takes half of the bottles from Lydia as they walk back to the car.

They're quiet on the car ride to the preserve, both lost in their own thoughts. Stiles is mentally running through the spell one more time, trying to make sure that he remembers everything he and Lydia did the first time. Lydia is staring out the window morosely, and Stiles almost wants to make a crack about how he's supposed to be the messed up one. He doesn't think it'll go over well, though.

Stiles parks as close to the nemeton as possible and they each grab their own respective bottles before hiking the rest of the way. It's not that far, thankfully, and there's no whistling wind or rain to keep them down like last time. When he and Lydia first cleansed the tree, it was more of an act of desperation than anything. They didn't think it would actually work.

He tells her this and Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Figures,” she says, “You're really into winging it with stuff like this.”

“It works almost all the time. Why mess with a good thing?”

She doesn't have a reply to that.

The nemeton isn't as gnarled as it was in the other time line. It's still cut down, but the root cellar is still in tact and not blown away in a darach caused storm. He guides Lydia around it, watching as she freezes at the sight of so much power concentrated in one source.

Stiles is used to the magic that cackles in the air, but he's patient as Lydia adjust to it.

“We've never been here,” she tells him, “Talia's always mentioned it but we could never find it. This is amazing, Stiles!”

Stiles decides not to burst her bubble about the whole murder sacrifice deal.

“Come on, the roots are down here.”

They follow the stairs down into the dark cellar. They creak beneath their feet and the beams wobble unsteadily overhead. There's a lantern attached to one of the beams and Stiles stretches up to light turn it on, smiling to himself as it flickers back to life.

“Alright,” Stiles shifts the bottles around in his arms, “First we need Witches Salt, Mountain Ash, Salt Peter, and Sulfur Powder.”

Lydia hands him two of the bottles, Stiles has the others, and he uncorks them. The smell instantly assaults his nose, strong and harsh like chemicals. He spreads them over the roots in equal parts, whispering, “Liberabit hanc animam. Munda quoque eiex malo. Gaudeamus liber arbore.”

“Your Latin’s gotten really good.” Lydia whispers in encouragement from behind him.

Stiles doesn't reply. He reaches down and picks up the Calamus root, Hyssop Herb, and the basil. He shakes them out of their bottles and onto the ground, improvising and using the soul of shoe to crush and grind them.

After they're a fine grain, he looks up at Lydia, “You need to do this part. Just call upon the dead to pull the evil from the roots as you spread it over them.”

Lydia scoffs, "Yes, Lydia, just call the forces of the dead to do your bidding."

Looking extremely hesitant, picks up the crushed herbs from the ground and lightly mixes them in her hands. She bites her lip before taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Her mouth moves silently as she sprinkles the mixture, quietly calling out to the dead in a voice that Stiles can't hear.

When she's done, Lydia's shoulders slump from exertion and there's a fine sheen of sweat at her temples.

There's only the dandelion left, dried and preserved in the glass vial. He shakes it out, feeling the crisp leaves in his hands.

He places it in the groove of the biggest root, the one soaked in Paige's blood. Stiles tries very hard not to think about it. He steps back and Lydia grabs his hand, watching together as the flowers petals slowly fall off as the tree absorbs its power.

They leave the glass vials, having no more use for them, and turn off the light on their way back up the stairs.

“Is it done?” Lydia asks him, looking both excited and worn out.

At the top of the stairs, the nemeton is calm and peaceful from where it rests. Stiles shakes his head at her and takes a step closer to it, feels the magic in his chest begin to react to the nemeton's power the closer he gets. He can hear Lydia calling at him but ignores her.

Once he gets close enough, Stiles places his palms flat on the tree stump. He focuses hard, pulling to the forefront of this mind every single person he loves, every single person he wants to protect, all the people in this town who knows and cares for. He thinks of them, of how they protect and watch over the town, of how they're kind and good, and he pours it all into the nemeton.

Green light is bursting from his hands, shooting up into the sky and he watches, awestruck, as a giant dome begins to form in the sky, spreading down like fractals as it creates a bubble. It goes farther than he can see, past the preserve and into the city before the treeline can cut him off.

His hands are tingling when Stiles pulls them off of the nemeton, and he turns around and tells Lydia, “Now it's done.”

She's looking at him like she's never seen him before, eyes wide and star struck.

“Stiles, that was amazing,” she whispers excitedly, “I never knew you could do something like that before.”

He smiles at her, “It's something I picked up in the other time line. It was more of a learn on the job thing than this read books gig we've got going with my mom.”

She snorts, “Certainly looks a lot more interesting.”

Stiles opens his mouth to agree, but he cuts himself off, face falling.

“Nah,” he tells her, turning to head back to the car, “Trust me. This is safer.”

Lydia drops it, and they walk back to the car side by side, talking excitedly about what they've done, and Stiles realizes somewhere along the way that he doesn't feel so vulnerable anymore.

* * *

Stiles still dreams about Kate sometimes, about her pointing a gun at his head and shooting him, about her pointing a gun at Derek, about her forcing him to pull a gun on Derek. They're all strange and ever changing, but they're enough to make him wake up with a nauseating feeling in his stomach.

Claudia and John won't let him stay downstairs anymore, Melissa says it's enabling him, so he learns to have to deal with it. It's not good for a night of rest, not when his bones ache and his head is foggy and all he wants to do is sleep without seeing faces, but John says it'll be good in the long run, and Stiles feels like he has to believe his dad when he smiles at him like that.

It's why he's sitting in his room when there's a knock on his door and a familiar voice shouting, “Stiles Stilinski I swear to god if I have to sit out in a hallway while you get your shit together _**again**_ then I am going to cut you up into pieces and feed you to my daughters!”

Stiles' first instinct is to shudder in fear, because it's Laura and the last time he saw her he had stolen her car and traumatized her boyfriend, but then it immediately switches to happiness because it's _Laura_.

And then a thick, brick wall of confusion. He shouts through the door, “You have a daughter now?”

Laura laughs, just as loud as he remembers, “Yes, you idiot! Now open up the door so I can harass you with baby pictures!”

Stiles springs up out of the chair before he can blink and has his door unlocked and opened in record time, only to be assaulted by an armful of werewolf.

“God, I've missed you!” She yells into his ear, practically vibrating as she hugs him.

Stiles laughs as he clutches her, grinning from ear to ear. He doesn't have any memories of Laura or Derek, not from the right Stiles. He had assumed she just forgot he existed after the timekeep took him away, but now that she's practically squealing his ear off, he thinks he has to reevaluate his thoughts on the matter.

“I'm so sorry I wasn't here right away! Mom didn't find out until Deaton told her the other day, and then I had to get time off of work and make sure the girls were okay and-” Laura pulls back and shoves at him, “I can't believe you're here! You just disappeared! Derek and I thought it was because of us, and mom said that we weren't allowed to be around the young you, which was bullshit by the way Derek and I are great influences.” Laura pinches the soft skin of his elbow, smiling as he jerks back, “And you're a dick, by the way. It took me a month to find my car, and when I did, it had like twenty parking tickets!”

Stiles coughs uncomfortably, “Yeah, uh, sorry about that? The timekeep didn't really give me much time to take care of things before he sent me here.”

Laura makes a face, “Which is kind of ironic? But, whatever, it's fine, seriously, it was like six years ago. I've had three cars since then, and tons more parking tickets.”

Stiles scoffs, knocking into Laura gently with his shoulder, “How was Brad, by the way? Did he ever get over the shock? It was going pretty strong last time I saw him.”

Laura grins at him, “Brad is actually in New York right now taking care of the girls, and yes, I have to say, he recovered quite well from the shock.”

At that point Laura hands him her Iphone, which brings back weird memories of shuffling awkwardly through Laura's brick phone so long ago, and he goes through the pictures, cooing at the twin girls, perfect identicles of Laura, except for their nose, which they get from Brad. Their names are Hannah and Savannah, which Stiles gives Laura a long and judging look for.

“The struggle will give them character,” Laura huffs, “Cora and I turned out fine. Can't say the same for Tarik and Rek, though.”

Stiles slowly hands Laura her phone back, asking stiffly, “How is Derek, by the way?”

Laura grins, “How is Derek all the time? Grumpy, anti social. He's completely fine, and he doesn't hold any grudge against you,” Laura turns toward the window and screams, “Which he would tell you himself if he stopped being a giant baby and came in the house!”

Stiles thinks he hears a faint horn honking, and then Laura's laughing with her arms wrapped around her stomach.

“You guys live together in New York?” Stiles asks, when her laughter's calmed down.

She makes a gesture with her hand, “Eh, we did in the beginning, and then Brad and I got _serious_ and Derek got _seriously_ grossed out by hearing us have sex, so we all decided it would be best if he moved out.”

“She means kick me out,” a voice from the doorway says, and Stiles freezes instantly, “Don't listen to her. She literally threw my clothes out in the street, told me she was getting laid, and locked me out.”

“He's lying,” Laura instantly cuts in, “I also gave him two hundred dollars for a cab and a hotel for the night.”

The room is quiet for a full minute after that, and Stiles doesn't even have a clock on the wall to fill the silence with ticks.

“Wow,” Laura says, “That got really awkward. I'll be downstairs eating fudge while you two fix whatever the hell is happening here.”

Laura leans in and gives Stiles a sloppy kiss on the cheek, which he quickly pulls away from with the appropriate grossed out noises.

She closes the door after her, and Stiles can't help but look at the window fondly, imagines throwing himself out it and rolling to the grass safely.

“She's right, you know?” Derek asks, and Stiles closes his eyes at how soft the voice is, how it sounds so much like the ones from his memories. “I don't hold a grudge. I actually want to thank you, for what you did. I never would have been able to turn her in unless you'd helped.”

Stiles resolutely does not turn to face Derek. He remembers so clearly the day Laura dragged him to meet Derek months ago, when he stared out the drivers window and determinedly didn't look back.

“I'm glad,” Stiles says, looking down at his hands, “I looked it up online. I'm happy she got sentenced to life, she was sick.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, “I just couldn't see it back then. I don't know if you remember, but that night you left? You pushed me against a wall and screamed at me, and I should have listened to you then but I couldn't. I wasn't strong enough then, you know?”

“Seriously,” Stiles sighs, “You're really good at articulating your emotions and it's freaking me out.”

Derek laughs behind him, and it's the exact same sound the other Derek would make. His stomach twists at the noise.

“I wasn't always,” Derek admits. Stiles can see a shape moving out of the corner of his eye, sees the shape sit on his bed, and he turns his chair to face the opposite wall. “There was a long time where I wouldn't talk to anyone in my family. I was just so angry all the time, you know? And I didn't even know why.”

Stiles hums and picks at a hangnail, hisses as it bleeds.

“The world isn't going to fall apart if you look at me,” Derek says gently, “I promise.”

Stiles snorts, “Sure. I'm already going through one psychotic break. I don't need another one.”

Derek is quiet and patient, and after a few minutes of it Stiles groans and gives in, turning to face him.

It shouldn't be surprising, really, that he looks exactly the same as the other Derek. He has less stress lines on his forehead, sure, but generally it's the same person. Same stupid hair cut. Same stupid scruff. And he looks good. He's a bit learner, body not pushed to such punishing limits as it was in the other time line, and his V neck fits a bit looser than it does in his memory. He looks relaxed and peaceful, which is so strange compared to the Derek in his head.

Stiles says, “This was a horrible idea.”

And Derek laughs, and it's so weird to see Derek's face and a smile that big with a laugh that loud. It contradicts every memory Stiles has of the other Derek, and it's enough to make him pause, just pretend the world has stopped spinning so he can take it in.

“How'd you do it?” Stiles asks suddenly.

Derek raises a familiar eyebrow, “What are you talking about?”

“Be happy. How'd you do it?”

Derek's quiet for a long minute, looking at Stiles in a sort of confused concern that Stiles has grown used to over the past month, but it's still strange coming from Derek's face.

“Lots of therapy,” Derek says finally. “Marin Morrell, Deaton's sister, she helped me a lot. It was really good for me, Stiles.”

He says it with a bit more emphasis on the words than was strictly necessary, and Stiles isn't an idiot so he gets the hint.

“I don't think therapy will help me.”

Derek hums, “It couldn't hurt, right?”

But Stiles doesn't mention how it could hurt, how every time he looks at someone's face it's a hot flash of hurt all over his body, how some mornings he feels like getting out of bed is the stupidest idea ever, how he wants nothing more than to just lay on the couch and block out the rest of the world. Therapy won't make any of that better, Stiles thinks, it'll just make him have to acknowledge that it's not good for him.

He doesn't say any of that though, knocks his knee into Derek's instead and asks, “Which college are you going to?”

“NYU,” Derek answers immediately, “I'm majoring in English.”

And it shocks a laugh out of Stiles louder than he's had since he's been back, it makes his sides ache, makes spit come out of his mouth.

“Some things never change,” he manages to choke out, wiping a tear from his eye, and Derek's smiling at him as he does.

“You never actually told me a lot about the other me,” Derek says, “I think that's the most information I know. That and the fact that I apparently helped out ladies bake cookies.”

“More like you were tricked into it,” Stiles shrugs, “But, details, right?”

Derek nods with a cheesy smile, “Cookies were still made by me. It counts.”

Stiles turns back to his desk and starts reorganizing paper stacks that he's already organized ten times, trying to look busy. It pulls at something deep in him to see Derek smile like that, makes it hurt and ache in a way that he isn't sure if he wants more of or not. He looks to the window again, wondering if the fall would break his leg or not. Surely the adrenalin would help him get away?

Derek clears his throat, shocking Stiles out of his escape plan, “Maybe you could text me at school some time? You could talk to me about the other place, if you want. Lydia says you haven't talked about it, really.”

"You and Lydia talk?" Stiles asks distractedly, smiling to himself at the genuine sincerity in the offer, and shakes his head, “Nah, I'm not gonna bore you with all of that dude. I will totally text you, though.”

Derek smiles at him, and the world still feels weird with it, but it doesn't feel any worse, so it has to be good, right?

* * *

It takes Stiles a while before he finally listens to Derek's advice.

Morrell does a lot of breathing exercises with him, a lot of counting and guiding him back from panic attacks. She teaches him to anchor himself, find something that he can use when he gets lost in a memory or in a nightmare and doesn't know if it's real or not. She teaches him to feel things again, slowly, and everything aches for a long while until he wants to just hide from the world.

She's patient with him, pulling him back from the edge slowly until he feels like he's able to breathe again. She listens to him talk, and it's easy because Stiles never really knew Morrell in either world. He knew of her, but he ultimately never cared that much for her opinion of him. It's okay if he disappoints her, if he's not the right Stiles, if he says something wrong.

She helps him break the habit of right Stiles and wrong Stiles. She helps him accept both parts of him, his memories and his mannerisms and his feelings, worst of all. There's lots of talk about feelings, unfortunately.

She's not afraid when he yells at her, just sits there and stares at him calmly until he's able to bring himself back. She doesn't touch him when he starts crying, is a quiet and reassuring presence until he lets it out.

Morrell still isn't able to talk him out of his guilt though, the thing he clutches firmly to with both hands. Some nights he wakes up screaming, imagines that Scott's still lying in his arms, his shirt soaked with blood as he presses it to the gaping wound, and he's screaming as the timekeep grabs him, begging them _please, please no, let me say here, don't make me leave_.

He can't tell which world he misses more. There's three worlds for him, but he's never able to explain it to anyone without them tilting their head in confusion. The memories mesh around in his head, the two worlds he knew separately and this one where he knows both. Sometimes, it's like being told the North Pole exist, but that he can never go visit it, and his heart aches.

He has so much more to lose in this new world though, so many people caring and depending on him, and it's scary as well as it's exhilarating at the same time.

Stiles has a long way to go before he's okay again, a lot of therapy and sleepless nights and emotional breakdowns before he's anywhere near healed, but it's okay, because he has so many people surrounding him, loving and supporting him until the end, that it makes it all almost worth it.

Deaton's sitting with Morrell when Stiles goes in one day, smiling at him, and Stiles doesn't freak out at the sight of him, which Morrell smiles at. It's all about the small victories, he reminds himself, taking it one day at a time.

“What's going on?” He asks, after hugging Alan.

The siblings look at each other before Morrell hands Stiles a leather bound book. He takes it from her with shaky hands and unbinds the string. The pages are blank though, and he flips the pages rapidly, trying to find the hidden message here.

“We think it's time you started your own journal, Stiles,” Morrell says.

Deaton looks at him, and grins, “Remember when we spent weeks reading all of those books? How do you think they all got started?”

“You want me to write about it?” Stiles clarifies, eyebrow raised, “What happened to me?”

“It's important that things like this don't become forgotten, Stiles,” Morrell leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, “Our kind survives on knowledge, and you're an important part of our cultures history now.”

Deaton taps the notebook, “Think of how lost you would have been without your family's books. Don't you think it's important to add to that?”

Morrell touches his hand, grip firm and warm, “I think it would be good for you. It's called exposure therapy. It'll help you cope.”

“It's a way to put this all behind you,” Deaton says, “Once you write it all down, it'll be easier to talk about.”

Morrell nods, “And the more we talk about it, the easier time you'll have over coming it.”

Stiles bites his lip, but his hands don't shake when he takes the offered pen. He's not sure if this is a good idea or not, but he's grown to trust Morrell over their sessions. Where would he be if he hadn't had his great grandfather's journals to go off of? He's almost certain he would still be trapped in 2007 with Hales breathing down his neck and Derek making bad decisions, and the thought scares him. He taps the pen to his chin three times before flipping open the notebook to the first page. His hands are steady as he writes, _“It all started when my best friend and I decided to go looking for a dead body.”_

Well, not linearly, of course, but he'll get to that later.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [timebomb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187805) by [FreshBrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains)




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